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LOS  ANGELES 

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THE  NOVELS  OP 
SAMUEL    RICHARDSON 


With  a  Life  of  the  Author,  and  Introductions  by 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

M.A.  (Harvard).  Ph.D.  (Yale) 
Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Yale  College 


COMPLETE  IN  NINETEEN  VOLUMES 


=^0gO?^ 


JAHVEL  RICMARDJONJ  NOVELJ 


publisbers'  (Buarantee 

EDITION    DE    LUXE 

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THE    HISTOKY 


OF 


CLARISSA  HARLOWE 


MR.  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 


WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 

WILLIAM    LYON    PHELPS 

Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Yale  College 


COMPLETE   IN   EIGHT   VOLUMES 

VOLUME  FOUR 


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SYNOPTICAL 
TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


LETTER    I. 

ifm  Clarissa  Earlowe  to  Miss  Eoive. — ^An  attempt  to  induce  her 
to  admit  Miss  Partington  to  a  share  in  her  bed  for  that 
night.    She  refuses.    Her  reasons.     Is  highly  dissatisfied  .      1 — 3 

LETTER    II. 

From  the  same. — Has  received  an  angry  letter  from  Mrs.  Howe, 
forbidding  her  to  correspond  with  her  daughter.  She  ad- 
vises compliance,  though  against  herself;  and  to  induce  her 
to  it,  makes  the  best  of  her  present  prospects  .  .  .     3 — 5 

LETTER    III. 

Miss  Hoice.  In  answer. — Flames  out  upon  this  step  of  her 
mother.  Insists  upon  continuing  the  correspondence.  Her 
menaces  if  Clarissa  write  not.  Raves  against  Lovelace.  But 
blames  her  for  not  obliging  Miss  Partington:  and  why.  Ad- 
vises her  to  think  of  settlements.  Likes  Lovelace's  proposal 
of  Mrs.   Fretchville's   house    ......     5 — 7 


LETTER    IV. 

Clarissa.  In  reply. — Terrified  at  her  menaces,  she  promises  to 
continue  writing.  Beseeches  her  to  learn  to  subdue  her 
passions.    Has  just  received  her  clothes  ....      7 — 9 

LETTER    V. 

Mr.  Hickman  to  Clarissa. — Miss  Howe,  he  tells  her,  is  uneasy 
for  the  vexation  she  has  given  her.     If  she  will  write  on  as 
before,  Miss  Howe  will  not  think  of  doing  what  she  is  so 
apprehensive  of.    He  offers  her  his  most  faithful  services  .    9 — 10 
Vol.  IV— 2. 


vi  CONTENTS. 

LETTER  VI.  VII. 

PAGE 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — Tells  him  how  much  the  lady  dislikes  the 
confraternity;  Belford  as  well  as  the  rest.  Has  had  a  warm 
debate  with  her  in  her  behalf.  Looks  upon  her  refusing  a 
share  in  her  bed  to  Miss  Partington  as  suspecting  and  de- 
fying him.     Threatens  her. Savagely  glories  in  her  grief, 

on  receiving  Miss  Howe's  prohibitory  letter:   which  appears 

to  be  instigated  by  himself  .....      10 — IG 

LETTER    VIII. 

Belford  to  Lovelace. — His  and  his  compeers  high  admiration  of 

Clarissa.    They  all  join  to  entreat  him  to  do  her  justice  .    16 — 19 

LETTER  IX.  X. 

Lovelace.  In  answer. — He  endeavours  to  palliate  his  purposes 
by  familiar  instances  of  cruelty  to  birds,  &c. — Farther  char- 
acteristic reasonings  in  support  of  his  wicked  designs.  The 
passive  condition  to  which  he  wants  to  bring  the  lady  .      19 — 30 

LETTER    XL 

Belford  in  reply. — Still  warmly  argues  in  behalf  of  the  lady.  Is 
obliged  to  attend  a  dying  uncle:  and  entreats  him  to  write 
from  time  to  time  an  account  of  all  his  proceedings       .      30 — 31 

LETTER    XII. 

Clarissa  to  il/f^s  Howe. — Lovelace,  she  says,  complains  of  the  re- 
serve he  yives  occasion  for.  His  pride  a  dirty  low  pride, 
which  has  eaten  up  his  prudence.  He  is  sunk  in  her  opinion. 
An  afflicting  letter  sent  her  from  her  cousin  Morden. 

Encloses  the  letter.  In  which  her  cousin  (swayed  by  the  repre- 
sentations of  her  brother)  pleads  in  behalf  of  Solmes,  and  the 
family-views;  and  sets  before  her,  in  strong  and  just  lights, 
the  character  of  a  libertine. 

Her  heavy  reflections  upon  the  contents.    Her  generous  prayer  32 — 42 

LETTER    XIIL 

Clarissa  to  Miss  Howe. — He  presses  her  to  go  abroad  with  him; 
yet  mentions  not  the  ceremony  that  should  give  propriety  to 
his  urgency.  Cannot  bear  the  life  she  lives.  Wishes  her 
uncle   Harlowe   to   be   sounded   by   Mr.   Hickman,    as   to    a 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

reconciliation.  Mennell  introduced  to  her.  Will  not  take 
another  step  with  Lovelace  till  she  know  the  success  of  the 
proposed  application  to  her  uncle. 
Substance  of  two  letters  from  Lovelace  to  Belford;  in  which  he 
tells  him  who  Mennell  is,  and  gives  an  account  of  many  new 
contrivances  and  precautions.  Women's  pockets  ballast-bags. 
Mrs.  Sinclair's  wardrobe.  Good  order  observed  in  her  house. 
The  lady's  caution,  he  says,  warrants  his  contrivances   .      43 — 51 

LETTER   XrV. 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — Will  write  a  play.  The  title  of  it,  The 
Quarrelsome  Lovers.  Perseverance  his  glory;  patience  his 
handmaid.  Attempts  to  get  a  letter  the  lady  had  dropt  as 
she  sat.  Her  high  indignation  upon  it.  Further  plots. 
Paul  Wheatly,  who ;  and  for  what  employed.  Sally  Martin's 
reproaches.  Has  overplotted  himself.  Human  nature  a  well- 
known   rogue      ........     51 — 58 

LETTEPx,    XV. 

Clarissa  to  Miss  Howe. — ^Acquaints  her  with  their  present  quarrel. 
Finds  it  imprudent  to  stay  with  him.  Re-urges  the  applica- 
tion to  her  uncle.  Cautions  her  sex  with  regard  to  the 
danger  of  being  misled  by  the  eye  .  .  .  .58 — 60 

LETTER    XVI. 

Miss  Howe.  In  ansiver. — Approves  of  her  leaving  Lovelace.  Xew 
stories  of  his  wickedness.  Will  have  her  uncle  sounded. 
Comforts  her.  How  much  her  ease  differs  from  that  of 
any  other  female  fugitive.  She  will  be  an  example  as  well 
as  a  warning.  A  picture  of  Clarissa's  happiness  before  she 
knew  Lovelace.  Brief  sketches  of  her  exalted  character. 
Adversity  her   shining  time        .....     60 — 66 

LETTER  XVII. 

Clarissa.  In  reply. — Has  a  contest  with  Lovelace  about  going  to 
church.  He  obliges  her  again  to  accept  of  his  company  to 
St.  Paul's 66—69 

LETTER  XVIII. 

Miss  Howe  to  Mrs.  Norton. — Desiring  her  to  try  to  dispose  Mrs. 

Harlowe  to  forward  a  reconciliation     ....     69 — 71 


viii  CONTENTS. 

LETTER  XIX. 

PAGE 

Mrs.  Norton.    In  answer   .......     71 — 72 

LETTER  XX. 
Miss  Howe.    In  reply       ........     72 

LETTER  XXI. 
Mrs.  Harlowe's  pathetic  letter  to  Mrs.  Norton  .  .  .     73 — 77 

LETTER  XXII. 

Miss  Howe  to  Clarissa. — Fruitless  issue  of  Mr.  Hickman's  appli- 
cation to  her  uncle.  Advises  her  how  to  proceed  with,  and 
what  to  say  to,  Lovelace.  Endeavours  to  account  for  his 
teasing  ways.  Who  knows,  she  says,  but  her  dear  friend 
was  permitted  to  swerve  in  order  to  bring  about  his  ref- 
ormation? Informs  her  of  her  uncle  Antony's  intended 
address  to  her   mother        ......     77 — 84 


LETTER  XXIII. 

Clarissa  to  Miss  Howe. — Hard  fate  to  be  thrown  upon  an  un- 
generous and  cruel  man.  Reasons  why  she  cannot  proceed 
with  Mr.  Lovelace  as  she  advises.  Affecting  apostrophe  to 
Lovelace     .........     84 — 87 


LETTER  XXIV. 

From  the  same. — Interesting  conversation  with  Lovelace.  He 
frightens  her.  He  mentions  settlements.  Her  modest  en- 
couragements of  him.  He  evades.  True  generosity  what. 
She  requires  his  proposals  of  settlements  in  writing.  Ex- 
amines herself  on  her  whole  conduct  to  Lovelace.  Maidenly 
niceness  not  her  motive  for  the  distance  she  has  kept  him 
at.  What  his.  Invites  her  correction  if  she  deceive  her- 
self     87—96 


LETTER  XXV. 

From  the  same. — With  Mr.  Lovelace's  written  proposals.  Her 
observation  on  the  cold  conclusion  of  them.  He  knows  not 
what  every  wise  man  knows,  of  the  prudence  and  delicacy 
required  in  a  wife       .......     96 — 99 


CONTENTS.  ix 

LETTER  XXVI. 

PAGE 

From  the  same. — Mr.  Lovelace  presses  for  the  day;  yet  makes  a 
proposal  which  must  necessarily  occasion  a  delay.  Her  un- 
reserved and  pathetic  answer  to  it.  He  is  affected  by  it. 
She  rejoices  that  he  is  penetrable.  He  presses  for  her  instant 
resolution;  but  at  the  same  time  insinuates  delay.  Seeing 
her  displeased,  he  urges  for  the  morrow:  but,  before  she  can 
answer,  gives  her  the  alternative  of  other  days.  Yet,  wanting 
to  reward  himself,  as  if  he  had  obliged  her,  she  repulses  him 
on  a  liberty  he  would  have  taken.  He  is  enraged.  Her  melan- 
clioly  reflections  on  her  future  prospects  with  such  a  man. 
The  moral  she  deduces  from  her  story.  [A  note  defending 
her  conduct  from  the  censure  which  passed  upon  her  as  over 
nice.] 

Extracts  from  four  of  his  letters:  in  which  he  glories  in  his 
cruelty.  Hardheartedness  he  owns  to  be  an  essential  of  the 
libertine  character.  Enjoys  the  confusion  of  a  fine  woman. 
His  apostrophe  to  virtue.  Ashamed  of  being  visibly  affected. 
Enraged  against  her  for  repulsing  him.  Will  steel  his  own 
heart,  that  he  may  cut  through  a  rock  of  ice  to  hers.  The 
women  afresh  instigate  him  to  attempt  her  virtue     .     99 — 109 

LETTER  XXVII. 

Miss  Howe  to  Clarissa. — Is  enraged  at  his  delays.  Will  think  of 
some  scheme  to  get  her  out  of  his  hands.  Has  no  notion  that 
he  can  or  dare  to  mean  her  dishonour.  Women  do  not 
naturally  hate  such  men  as  Lovelace        .  .  .      109 — 111 

LETTER  XXVIII. 

Belford  to  Lovelace. — ^Warmly  espouses  the  lady's  cause.  Nothing 
but  vanity  and  nonsense  in  the  wild  pursuits  of  libertines. 
For  his  own  sake,  for  his  family's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of 
their  common  humanity,  he  beseeches  him  to  do  the  lady 
justice    .......••      Ill — 115 

LETTER  XXIX. 

Lord    M.    to    Mr.    Belford. — A    proverbial    letter    in    the    lady's 

favour •      115—119 

LETTER  XXX. 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — He  ludicrously  turns  Belford's  arguments 
against  him.     Resistance   inflames   him.      Why  the  gallant 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

is  preferred  to  the  husband.  Gives  a  piece  of  advice  to 
married  women.  Substance  of  his  letter  to  Lord  M.  desiring 
him  to  give  the  lady  to  him  in  person.  His  view  in  this 
letter.  Ridicules  Lord  M.  for  his  jiroverbs.  Ludicrous  ad- 
vice to  Belford  in  relation  to  his  dying  uncle.  What  physi- 
cians should  do  when  a  patient  is  given  over      .  .      120 — 125 

LETTER  XXXI. 

Belford  to  Lovelace. — Sets  forth,  the  folly,  the  inconvenience,  the 
impolicy  of  keeping,  and  the  preference  of  marriage,  upon 
the  foot  of  their  own  principles,  as  libertines       .  126 — 133 

LETTER  XXXIL 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — Affects  to  mistake  the  intention  of  Bel- 
ford's  letter,  and  thanks  him  for  approving  his  present 
scheme.  The  seduction  progress  is  more  delightful  to  him, 
he  says,  than  the  crowning  act         ....      134 — 135 

LETTER  XXXIII. 

From  the  same. — All  extremely  happy  at  present.  Contrives  a 
conversation  for  the  lady  to  overhear.  Platonic  love,  how 
it  generally  ends.  Will  get  her  to  a  play :  likes  not  tragedies. 
Has  too  much  feeling.  Why  men  of  his  cast  prefer  comedy 
to  tragedy.  The  nymphs,  and  Mrs.  Sinclair,  and  all  their 
acquaintance,  of  the  same  mind.  Other  artifices  of  his. 
Could  he  have  been  admitted  in  her  hours  of  dishabille  and 
heedlessness,  he  had  been  long  ago  master  of  his  wishes.  His 
view  in  getting  her  to  a  play:  a  play,  and  a  collation  after- 
wards, greatly  befriend  a  lover's  designs,  and  why.  She  con- 
sents to  go  with  him  to  see  the  tragedy  of  Venice  Pre- 
served    .........      135 — 141 

LETTER  XXXIV. 

Clarissa  to  Miss  Howe. — Gives  the  particulars  of  the  overheard 
conversation.  Thinks  her  prospects  a  little  mended.  Is 
willing  to  compound  for  tolerable  appearances,  and  to  hope, 
when  reason  for  hope  offers       .....      141 — 145 

LETTER  XXXV. 

Miss  Hone  to  Clarissa. — Her  scheme  of  Mrs.  Townsend.  Is  not 
for  encouraging  dealers  in  prohibited  goods;  and  why. 
Her  humourous  treatment  of  Hickman  on  consulting  him 
upon   Lovelace's   proposals   for   settlements        .  .      145 — 148 


CONTENTS.  xi 

LETTER  XXXVI. 


TAGE 


From  the  same. — Her  account  of  Antony  Harlowe's  address  to 
her  mother,  and  of  what  passed  on  her  mother's  communi- 
cating it  to  her.  Copy  of  Mrs.  Howe's  answer  to  his 
letter 149—164 

LETTER  XXXVII.  XXXVIII. 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — Comes  at  several  letters  of  Miss  Howe.  He 
is  now  more  assured  of  Clarissa  than  ever ;  and  why.  Spark- 
ling eyes,  what  they  indicate.  She  keeps  him  at  distance. 
Repeated  instigations  from  the  women.  Account  of  the  let- 
ters he  has  come  at.  All  rage  and  revenge  upon  the  con- 
tents of  them.  Menaces  Hickman.  Wishes  Miss  Howe  had 
come  up   to  town   as  she  threatened  .  .  .      164 — 178 

LETTER  XXXIX. 

Clarissa  to  Miss  Hotve. — Is  terrified  by  him.  Disclaims  prudery. 
Begs  of  Miss  Howe  to  perfect  her  scheme,  that  she  may  leave 
him.  She  thinks  her  temper  changed  for  the  worse.  Trembles 
to  look  back  upon  his  encroachments.  Is  afraid,  on  the  close 
self-examination  which  her  calamities  have  caused  her  to 
make,  that  even  in  the  best  actions  of  her  past  life  she  has 
not  been  quite  free  from  secret  pride,  &c.  Tears  almost  in 
two  the  answer  she  had  written  to  his  proposals.  Intends  to 
go  out  next  day,  and  not  to  return.  Her  further  inten- 
tions        178—187 


\ 


LETTER  XL. 


Lovelace  to  Belford.— Meets  the  lady  at  breakfast.  Flings  the 
tea-cup  and  saucer  over  his  head.  The  occasion.  Alarms 
and  terrifies  her  by  his  free  address.  Romping,  the  use  of 
it  to  a  lover.  Will  try  if  she  will  not  yield  to  nightly  sur- 
prises. A  lion-hearted  lady  where  her  honour  is  concerned. 
Must  have  recourse  to  his  masterstrokes.  Fable  of  the  sun 
and  north  wind.  Mrs.  Fretchville's  house  an  embarrass.  He 
gives  that  pretended  lady  the  small-pox.  Other  contrivances 
in  his  head  to  bring  Clarissa  back,  if  she  should  get  away. 
Miss  Howe's  scheme  of  Mrs.  Townsend  is,  he  says,  a  sword 
hanging  over  his  head.  He  must  change  his  measures  to 
render  it  abortive.  He  is  of  the  true  lady-make.  What  that 
is.  Another  conversation  between  them.  Her  apostrophe  to 
her  father.  He  is  temporally  moved.  Dorcas  gives  him 
notice  of  a  paper  she  has  come  at,  and  is  transcribing.     In 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

order  to  detain  the  lady,  he  presses  for  the  day.  Miss  Howe 
he  fancies  in  love  with  him ;  and  why.  He  sees  Clarissa  does 
not  hate  him 187—203 

LETTER  XLI. 

From  the  same. — Copy  of  the  transcribed  paper.  It  proves  to  be 
her  torn  answer  to  his  proposals.  Meekness  the  glory  of  a 
woman.  Ludicrous  image  of  a  termagant  wife.  He  had 
better  never  to  have  seen  this  paper.  Has  very  strong  re- 
morses. Paints  them  in  lively  colours.  Sets  forth  the  lady's 
transcendent  virtue,  and  greatness  of  mind.  Surprised  into 
these  argmnents  in  her  favour  by  his  conscience.  Puts  it  to 
flight 203—213 


LETTER  XLII. 

From  the  same. — Mennell  scruples  to  aid  him  further  in  his  de- 
signs. Vapourish  people  the  physical  tribes  milch-cows.  Ad- 
vice to  the  faculty.  Has  done  with  his  project  about  Mrs. 
Fretchville's  house.  The  lady  suspects  him.  A  seasonable 
letter  for  him  from  his  cousin  Charlotte.  Sends  up  the 
letter  to  the  lady.  She  writes  to  Miss  Howe,  upon  perusing 
it,  to  suspend  for  the  present  her  application  to  Mrs.  Town- 
send        213—218 


LETTER  XLIII. 

From  the  same. — An  interview  all  placid  and  agreeable.  Now  is 
he  in  a  train.  All  he  now  waits  for  is  a  letter  from  Lord  M. 
Inquiries  after  their  marriage  by  a  stranger  of  good  appear- 
ance.   The  lady  alarmed  at  them       ....     218 — 220 


LETTER  XLIV. 

From  the  same. — Curses  his  uncle  for  another  proverbial  letter 
he  has  sent  him.  Permits  the  lady  to  see  it.  Nine  women 
in  ten  that  fall,  fall,  he  says,  through  their  own  fault  .  221 — 222 


LETTER  XLV. 
Lord  M.'s  characteristic  letter         .....     222 — 228 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

LETTER  XLVI. 

PAGS 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — The  lady  now  comes  to  him  at  the  first 
word.  Triumphs  in  her  sweetness  of  temper,  and  on  her 
patience  with  him.  Puts  his  writings  into  Counsellor  Wil- 
liam's hands,  to  prepare  settlements.  Shall  now  be  doubly 
armed.  Boasts  of  his  contrivances  in  petto.  Brings  patterns 
to  her.  Proposes  jewels.  Admires  her  for  her  prudence  with 
regard  to  what  he  puts  her  upon  doing  for  her  Norton.  What 
his  wife  must  do  and  be.  She  declines  a  public  wedding. 
Her  dutiful  reasons.  She  is  willing  to  dispense  with  Lord 
M.'s  presence.    He  writes  to  Lord  M.  accordingly       .      228 — 234 

Extracts  from  a  Letter  of  Clarissa. — After  giving  Miss  Howe  an 
account  of  the  present  favourable  appearances,  she  desires 
her  to  keep  to  herself  all  such  of  the  particulars  which  she 
has  communicated  to  her  as  may  discredit  Mr.  Lovelace  234 — 235 

LETTER  XLVII. 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — His  projected  plot  to  revenge  himself  upon 

Miss  Howe 23.5—243 

LETTER  XLVIir. 

From  the  same. — Fresh  contrivances  crowd  in  upon  him.  He 
shall  be  very  sick  on  the  morrow;  and  why.  Women  below 
impertinently  reproachful.  He  will  be  no  man's  successor. 
Will  not  take  up  with  harlots.  History  of  the  French  mar- 
quis          243—249 

LETTER  XLIX. 

From  the  same. — An  agreeable  airing  with  the  lady.  Delightfully 
easy  she.  Obsequiously  respectful  he.  Miss  Howe's  plot 
now  no  longer  his  terror.  Gives  the  particulars  of  their 
agreeable  conversation  while  abroad  .  .  .     249 — 254 


"■o"- 


LETTER  L. 

From  the  same. — An  account  of  his  ipecacuanha  plot.  Instructs 
Dorcas  how  to  act  surprise  and  terror.  Monosyllables  and 
trisyllables  to  what  likened.  Politeness  lives  not  in  a  storm. 
Proclamation  criers.  The  lady  now  he  sees  loves  him.  Her 
generous  tenderness  for  him.  He  has  now  credit  for  a  new 
score.    Defies  Mrs.  Townsend   .....     254 — 258 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

LETTER  LI. 

PAGE 

Clarissa  to  Miss  Howe. — Acknowledged  tenderness  for  Lovelace. 

Love  for  a  man  of  errors  punishable        .  .  .     258 — 261 

LETTER  LII. 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — Suspicious  inquiry  after  him  and  the  lady 
by  a  servant  in  livery  from  one  Captain  Tomlinson.  Her 
terrors  on  the  occasion.  His  alarming  management.  She  re- 
solves not  to  stir  abroad.  He  exults  upon  her  not  being  wil- 
ling to  leave  him     .......     261 — 264 

LETTER  LIII.  LIV. 

From  the  same. — Arrival  of  Captain  Tomlinson,  with  a  pretended 
commission  from  Mr.  John  Harlowe  to  set  on  foot  a  general 
reconciliation,  provided  he  can  be  convinced  that  they  are 
actually  married.  Different  conversations  on  this  occasion. 
The  lady  insists  that  the  truth  be  told  to  Tomlinson.  She 
carries  her  point,  though  to  the  disappointment  of  one  of 
his  private  views.  He  forms  great  hopes  of  success  from  the 
effects  of  his  ipecacuanha  contrivance       .  .  .     264 — 281 

LETTER  LV. 

From  the  same. — He  makes  such  a  fair  representation  to  Tomlin- 
son of  the  situation  between  him  and  the  lady,  behaves  so 
plausibly,  and  makes  an  overture  so  generous,  that  she  is 
all  kindness  and  unreserve  to  him.  Her  affecting  exultation 
on  her  amended  prospects.  His  unusual  sensibility  upon  it. 
Reflection  on  the  good  effects  of  education.  Pride  an  excel- 
lent substitute  to  virtue    ......     282 — 289 

LETTER  LVI. 

From  the  same. — Who  Tomlinson  is.  Again  makes  Belford  object, 
in  order  to  explain  his  designs  by  answering  the  objections. 
John  Harlowe  a  sly  sinner.  Hardhearted  reasons  for  giving 
tiie  lady  a  gleam  of  joy.  Illustrated  by  a  story  of  two  sover- 
eigns  at   war 289—291 

Extracts  from  Clarissa's  letter  to  Miss  Howe.  She  rejoices  in 
lier  present  agreeable  prospects.  Attributes  much  to  Mr. 
Hickman.     Describes  Captain  Tomlinson.     Gives  a  character 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PAGE 

of  Lovelace  [which  is  necessary  to  be  attended  to:  especially 
by  those  who  have  thought  favourably  of  him  for  some  of 
his  liberal  actions,  and  hardly  of  her  for  the  distance  she  at 
first  kept  him  at]    .......     291 — 295 

LETTER  LVII. 

Lovelace  to  Belford. — Letter  from  Lord  M.  His  further  arts  and 
precautions.  His  happy  day  promised  to  be  soon.  His 
opinion  of  the  clergy,  and  of  going  to  church.  She  pities 
everybody  who  wants  pity.  Loves  everybody.  He  owns  he 
should  be  the  happiest  of  men,  could  he  get  over  his  prej- 
udices against  matrimony.  Draughts  of  settlements.  Ludi- 
crously accounts  for  the  reason  why  she  refuses  to  hear  them 
read  to  her.  Law  and  Gospel  two  different  things.  Sally 
flings  her  handkerchief  in  his  face     ....     295 — 301 

LETTER  LVIII. 

From  the  same. — Has  made  the  lady  more  than  once  look  about 
her.  She  owns  that  he  is  more  than  indifferent  to  her. 
Checks  him  with  sweetness  of  temper  for  his  encroaching 
freedoms.  Her  proof  of  true  love.  He  ridicules  marriage 
purity.  Severely  reflects  upon  public  freedoms  between  men 
and  their  wives.  Advantage  he  once  made  upon  such  an  oc- 
casion. Has  been  after  a  license.  Difficulty  in  procuring 
one.  Great  faults  and  great  virtues  often  in  the  same  person. 
He  is  willing  to  believe  that  women  have  no  souls.  His 
whimsical  reasons   .......      301 — 305 

LETTER  LIX. 

From  the  same. — Almbst  despairs  of  succeeding  (as  he  had 
hoped)  by  love  and  gentleness.  Praises  her  modesty.  His 
encroaching  freedoms  resented  by  her.  The  woman,  he  6b- 
serves,  who  resents  not  initiatory  freedoms,  must  be  lost. 
He  reasons,  in  his  free  way,  upon  her  delicacy.  Art  of  the 
Eastern  monarchs   .......     305 — 308 

LETTER  LX. 

From  the  same. — A  letter  from  Captain  Tomlinson  makes  all  up. 
Her  uncle  Harlowe's  pretended  proposal  big  with  art  and 
plausible  delusion.  She  acquiesces  in  it.  He  writes  to  the 
pretended  Tomlinson,  on  an  affecting  hint  of  hers,  requesting 
that  her  uncle  Harlowe  would,  in  person,  give  his  niece  to 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

him;  or  permit  Tomlinson  to  be  his  proxy  on  the  occasion. 
And  now  for  a  little  mine,  he  says,  which  he  has  ready  to 
spring 308 — 314 

LETTER  LXI. 

Belford  to  Lovelace. — Again  earnestly  expostulates  with  him  in 
the  lady's  favour.  Remembers  and  applauds  the  part  she 
bore  in  the  conversation  at  his  collation.  The  frothy  wit  of 
libertines  how  despicable.  Censures  the  folly,  the  weakness, 
the  grossness,  the  unpermanency  of  sensual  love.  Calls  some 
of  his  contrivances  trite,  stale  and  poor.  Beseeches  him  to 
remove  her  from  the  vile  house.  How  many  dreadful  stories 
could  the  horrid  Sinclair  tell  the  sex!  Serious  reflections 
on  the  dying  state  of  his  uncle         ....     314 — 323 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


CLARISSA  HARLOWE,  VOLUME  IV. 

I    TOOK    CAKE    TO    SET    MY    FOOT    UPON    THE    LETTER,    AND    SCRAPED 

IT  FARTHER  FROM  HER,  AS  IT  WERE  BEHIND  HER  CHAIR.   Frontispiece 

Drawn  and  engraved  by  R.  Vinkeles   (p.  53). 

Then  turning  to  him,  I  asked  if  he  kept  me  there  his  pris- 
oner? ..........     68 

Engraved  by  Hubert  from  a  drawing  by  Marillier. 

A  GENTLEMAN,   THIS   MINUTE,    SIR,   DESIRES   TO   SPEAK   WITH   YOUR 

HONOUR.         ..........    270 

Engraved  by  Gaucher  from  a  drawing  by  Marillier. 

\ 


THE    HISTORY 

of 

CLARISSA    HAELOWE 


LETTER  I. 


Miss   Clarissa  Harlow e   to   Miss  Howe. 

Monday,  Midnight. 

1  AM  very  much  vexed  and  disturbed  at  an  odd  incident. 
Mrs.  Sinclair  has  just  now  left  me;  I  believe  in  displeasure, 
on  my  declining  to  comply  with  a  request  she  made  me: 
which  was  to  admit  Miss  Partington  to  a  share  in  my  bed, 
her  house  being  crowded  by  her  nieces'  guests  and  by  their 
attendants,  as  well  as  by  those  of  Miss  Partington. 

There  might  be  nothing  in  it;  and  my  denial  carried  a 
stiff  and  ill-natured  appearance.  But  instantly,  upon  her 
making  the  request,  it  came  into  my  thought,  'that  I  was 
in  a  manner  a  stranger  to  everybody  in  the  house:  not 
so  much  as  a  servant  I  could  call  my  own,  or  of  whom  I 
had  any  great  opinion:  that  there  were  four  men  of  free 
manners  in  the  house,  avowed  supporters  of  Mr.  Lovelace 
in  matters  of  offence;  himself  a  man  of  enterprise;  all,  as 
far  as  I  knew  (and  as  I  had  reason  to  think  by  their  noisy 
mirth  after  I  left  them),  drinking  deeply:  that  Miss  Part- 
ington herself  is  not  so  bashful  a  person  as  she  was  repre- 
sented to  me  to  be:  that  officious  pains  were  taken  to  give 
me  a  good  opinion  of  her:  and  that  Mrs.  Sinclair  made  a 


2  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  greater  parade  in  prefacing  the  request,  than  such  a  request 
'  needed.  To  deny,  thought  1,  can  carry  only  an  appear- 
'  ance  of  singularity  to  people  who  already  think  me  singular. 
'  To  consent  may  possibly,  if  not  probably,  be  attended  with 
'  inconveniences.  The  consequences  of  the  alternative  so 
'very  disproportionate,  I  thought  it  more  prudent  to  incur 
'  the  censure,  than  to  risk  the  inconvenience.' 

I  told  her  that  I  was  writing  a  long  letter:  that  I  should 
choose  to  write  till  I  were  sleepy,  and  that  a  companion 
would  be  a  restraint  upon  me,  and  I  upon  her. 

She  was  loth,  she  said,  that  so  delicate  a  young  creature, 
and  so  great  a  fortune  as  Miss  Partington,  should  be  put  to 
lie  with  Dorcas  in  a  press-bed.  She  should  be  very  sorry, 
if  she  had  asked  an  improper  thing.  She  had  never  been 
so  put  to  it  before.  And  Miss  would  stay  up  with  her  till 
I  had  done  writing. 

Alarmed  in  this  urgency,  and  it  being  easier  to  persist  in 
a  denial  given,  than  to  give  it  at  first,  I  said.  Miss  Partington 
should  be  welcome  to  my  whole  bed,  and  I  would  retire 
into  the  dining-room,  and  there,  locking  myself  in,  write  all 
the  night. 

The  poor  thing,  she  said,  was  afraid  to  lie  alone.  To  be 
sure  Miss  Partington  would  not  put  me  to  such  an  incon- 
venience. 

She  then  withdrew, — but  returned — begged  my  pardon 
for  returning,  but  the  poor  child,  she  said  was  in  tears. — 
Miss  Partington  never  had  seen  a  young  lady  she  so  much 
admired,  and  so  much  wished  to  imitate  as  me.  The  dear 
girl  hoped  that  nothing  had  passed  in  her  behaviour  to  give 
me  dislike  to  her. — Should  she  bring  her  to  me  ? 

I  was  very  busy,  I  said:  the  letter  I  was  writing  was 
upon  a  very  important  subject.  I  hoped  to  see  the  young 
lady  in  the  morning,  when  I  would  apologise  to  her  for  my 
particularity.  And  then  Mrs.  Sinclair  hesitating,  and  mov- 
ing towards  the  door  (though  she  turned  round  to  me  again), 
I  desired  her  (Ugliting  her)  to  take  care  how  she  went 
down. 

Pray,  Madam,  said  she  on  the  stairshead,  don't  give  your- 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  3 

self  all  this  trouble,  God  knows  my  heart,  I  meant  no 
affront:  but  since  you  seem  to  take  my  freedom  amiss,  I 
beg  you  will  not  acquaint  Mr.  Lovelace  with  it;  for  he 
perhaps  will  think  me  bold  and  impertinent. 

Now,  my  dear,  is  not  this  a  particular  incident,  either 
as  I  have  made  it,  or  as  it  was  designed?  I  don't  love  to 
do  an  uncivil  thing.  And  if  nothing  were  meant  'by  the 
request,  my  refusal  deserves  to  be  called  uncivil.  Then  I 
have  shown  a  suspicion  of  foul  usage  by  it,  which  surely 
dare  not  be  meant.  If  just,  I  ought  to  apprehend  everything, 
and  fly  the  house  and  the  man  as  I  would  an  infection.  If 
not  just,  and  if  I  cannot  contrive  to  clear  myself  of  having 
entertained  suspicions,  by  assigning  some  other  plausible 
reason  for  my  denial,  the  very  staying  here  will  have  an 
appearance  not  at  all  reputable  to  myself. 

I  am  now  out  of  humour  with  him, — with  myself, — with 
all  the  world,  but  you.  His  companions  are  shocking  crea- 
tures. Why,  again  I  repeat,  should  he  have  been  desirous 
to  bring  me  into  such  company?  Once  more  I  like  him 
not. — Indeed  I  do  not  like  him ! 


LETTER  11. 

Miss   Clarissa  Harlowe   to  Miss  Howe. 

Tuesday,  May  2. 

With  infinite  regret  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you,  that  I  can 
no  longer  write  to  you,  or  receive  letters  from  you. — Your 
mother  has  sent  me  a  letter  enclosed  in  a  cover  to  Mr. 
Lovelace,  directed  for  him  at  Lord  M.'s  (and  which  was 
brought  him  just  now),  reproaching  me  on  this  subject  in 
very  angry  terms,  and  forbidding  me,  '  as  I  would  not  be 
'thought  to  intend  to  make  her  and  you  unhappy,  to  write 
'  to  you  without  her  leave.' 

This,  therefore,  is  the  last  you  must  receive  from  me,  till 
Vol.  IV— 3. 


4  THE   HISTORY   OF 

happier  days.  And  as  my  prospects  are  not  very  bad,  I 
presume  we  shall  soon  have  leave  to  write  again;  and  even 
to  see  each  other :  since  an  alliance  with  a  family  so  honour- 
able as  Mr.  Lovelace's  is  will  not  be  a  disgrace. 

She  is  pleased  to  write,  '  That  if  I  would  wish  to  inflame 
*you,  I  should  let  you  know  her  written  prohibition:  but 
*  if  otherwise,  find  some  way  of  my  own  accord  (without 
'  bringing  her  into  the  question)  to  decline  a  correspondence, 
'  which  I  must  know  she  has  for  some  time  past  forbidden.' 
But  all  I  can  say  is,  to  beg  of  you  not  to  be  inflamed:  to 
beg  of  you  not  to  let  her  know,  or  even  by  your  behaviour 
to  her,  on  this  occasion,  guess  that  I  have  acquainted  you 
with  my  reason  for  declining  to  write  to  you.  For  how 
else,  after  the  scruples  I  have  heretofore  made  on  this  very 
subject,  yet  proceeding  to  correspond,  can  I  honestly  satisfy 
you  about  my  motives  for  this  sudden  stop?  So,  my  dear, 
I  choose,  you  see,  rather  to  rely  upon  your  discretion,  than 
to  feign  reasons  with  which  you  would  not  be  satisfied,  but 
with  your  usual  active  penetration,  sift  to  the  bottom,  and 
at  last  find  me  to  be  a  mean  and  low  qualifier;  and  that 
with  an  implication  injurious  to  you,  that  I  supposed  you 
had  not  prudence  enough  to  be  trusted  with  the  naked 
truth. 

I  repeat,  that  my  prospects  are  not  bad.     '  The  house,  I 
presume,  will  soon  be  taken.     The  people  here  are  very 
respectful,  notwithstanding  my  nicety  about  Miss  Parting- 
ton.    Miss  Martin,  who  is  near ,  marriage  with  an  eminent 
tradesman  in  the  Strand,  just  now,  in  a  very  respectful 
manner,  asked  my  opinion  of  some  patterns  of  rich  silks 
for  the  occasion.     The  widow  has  a  less  forbidding  ap- 
pearance than  at  first.     Mr.  Lovelace,  on  my  declared  dis- 
like of  his  four  friends,  has  assured  me  that  neither  they 
nor  anybody  else  shall  be  introduced  to  me  without  my 
leave.' 
These  circumstances  I  mention  (as  you  will  suppose)  that 
jour  kind  heart  may  be  at  ease  about  me;  that  you  may 
be  induced  by  them  to  acquiesce  with  your  mother's  com- 
mands {cheerfully  acquiesce),  and  that  for  my  sake,  lest  I 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  a 

should  be   thought  an  inflanier;  who   am,   with  very   con- 
trary intentions,  my  dearest  and  best  beloved  friend, 

Your  ever  obliged  and  affectionate 

Clarissa  Harlowe. 


LETTER  III. 

Miss  Howe   to  Miss   Clarissa  Hartowe. 

Wednesday,  May  3. 

I  AM  astonished  that  my  mother  should  take  such  a  step 
— purely  to  exercise  an  unreasonable  act  of  authority;  and 
to  oblige  the  most  remorseless  hearts  in  the  world.  If  I 
find  that  I  can  be  of  use  to  you,  either  by  advice  or  infor- 
mation, do  you  think  I  will  not  give  it! — Were  it  to  any 
other  person,  much  less  dear  to  me  than  you  are,  do  you  think, 
in  such  a  case,  I  would  forbear  giving  it? 

Mr.  Hickman,  who  pretends  to  a  little  casuistry  in  such 
nice  matters,  is  of  opinion  that  I  ought  not  to  decline  a 
correspondence  thus  circumstanced.  And  it  is  well  he  is; 
for  my  mother  having  set  me  up,  I  must  have  somebody  to 
quarrel  with. 

This  I  will  come  into  if  it  will  make  you  easy — I  will 
forbear  to  write  to  you  for  a  few  days,  if  nothing  extraor- 
dinary happen,  and  till  the  rigour  of  her  prohibition  is 
abated.  But  be  assured  that  I  will  not  dispense  with  your 
writing  to  me.  My  heart,  my  conscience,  my  honour  will 
not  permit  it. 

But  how  will  I  help  myself? — How! — easily  enough. 
For  I  do  assure  you  that  I  want  but  very  little  farther  prov- 
ocation to  fly  privately  to  London.  And  if  I  do,  I  will 
not  leave  you  till  I  see  you  either  honourably  married,  or 
absolutely  quit  of  the  wretch:  and,  in  this  last  case,  I  will 
take  you  down  with  me,  in  defiance  of  the  whole  world:  or, 
if  you  refuse  to  go  with  me,  stay  with  you,  and  accompany 
you  as  your  shadow  whithersoever  you  go. 


6  THE   HISTORY   OF 

Don't  be  frighted  at  this  declaration.  There  is  but  one 
consideration,  and  but  one  hope,  that  withhold  me,  watched 
as  I  am  in  all  my  retirements ;  obliged  to  read  to  her  without 
a  voice;  to  work  in  her  presence  without  fingers;  and  to 
lie  with  her  every  night  against  my  will.  The  consideration 
is,  lest  you  should  apprehend  that  a  step  of  this  nature 
would  look  like  a  doubling  of  your  fault,  in  the  eyes  of  such 
as  think  your  going  away  a  fault.  The  hope  is,  that  things 
will  still  end  happily,  and  that  some  people  will  have  reason 
to  take  shame  to  themselves  for  the  sorry  part  they  have 
acted.  Nevertheless  I  am  often  balancing — but  your  resolv- 
ing to  give  up  the  correspondence  at  this  crisis  will  turn  the 
scale.     Write,  therefore,  or  take  the  consequence. 

A  few  words  upon  the  subject  of  your  last  letters.  I  know 
not  whether  your  brother's  wise  project  be  given  up  or  not. 
A  dead  silence  reigns  in  your  family.  Your  brother  was 
absent  three  days;  then  at  home  one;  and  is  now  absent: 
but  whether  with  Singleton  or  not,  I  cannot  find  out. 

By  your  account  of  your  wretch's  companions,  I  see  not 
but  they  are  a  set  of  infernals,  and  he  the  Beelzebub.  What 
could  he  mean,  as  you  say,  by  his  earnestness  to  bring  you 
into  such  company,  and  to  give  you  such  an  opportunity 
to  make  him  and  them  reflecting-glasses  to  one  another? 
The  man's  a  fool,  to  be  sure,  my  dear — a  silly  fellow,  at 
least — the  wretches  must  put  on  their  best  before  you,  no 
doubt — Lords  of  the  creation ! — noble  fellows  these ! — Yet 
Avho  knows  how  many  poor  despicable  souls  of  our  sex  the 
worst  of  them  has  had  to  whine  after  him ! 

You  have  brought  an  inconvenience  upon  yourself,  as 
you  observe,  by  your  refusal  of  Miss  Partington  for  your 
bedfellow.  Pity  you  had  not  admitted  her !  watchful  as  you 
are,  what  could  have  happened?  If  violence  were  intended, 
he  would  not  stay  for  the  night.  You  might  have  sat  up 
after  her,  or  not  gone  to  bed.  Mrs.  Sinclair  pressed  it  too 
far.    You  are  over-scrupulous. 

If  anything  happen  to  delay  your  nuptials,  I  would  ad- 
vise you  to  remove :  but,  if  you  marry,  perhaps  you  may 
think  it  no  great  matter  to  stay  where  you  are  till  you  take 


CLARISSA   EARLOWE.  7 

possession  of  your  own  estate.  The  knot  once  tied,  and 
with  so  resolute  a  man,  it  is  my  opinion  your  relations  will 
soon  resign  what  they  cannot  legally  hold:  and,  were  even 
a  litigation  to  follow,  you  will  not  be  able,  nor  ought  you 
to  be  willing  J  to  help  it:  for  your  estate  will  then  be  his 
right;  and  it  will  be  unjust  to  wish  it  to  be  withheld  from 
him. 

One  thing  I  would  advise  you  to  think  of;  and  that  is, 
of  proper  settlements :  it  will  be  to  the  credit  of  your 
prudence  and  of  his  justice  (and  the  more  as  matters  stand) 
that  something  of  this  should  be  done  before  you  marry. 
Bad  as  he  is,  nobody  accounts  him  a  sordid  man.  And  I 
wonder  he  has  been  hitherto  silent  on  that  subject. 

I  am  not  displeased  with  his  proposal  about  the  widow 
lady's  house.  I  think  it  will  do  very  well.  But  if  it  must 
be  three  weeks  before  you  can  be  certain  about  it,  surely 
you  need  not  put  off  his  day  for  that  space:  and  he  may 
bespeak  his  equipages.  Surprising  to  me,  as  well  as  to  you, 
that  he  could  be  so  acquiescent ! 

I  repeat — continue  to  write  to  me.  I  insist  upon  it ;  and 
that  as  minutely  as  possible:  or,  take  the  consequence.  I 
send  this  by  a  particular  hand.    I  am,  and  ever  will  be. 

Your  affectionate  .  tt 

Anna  Howe. 


LETTER  lY. 

Miss   Clarissa  Harlowe   to   Miss  Howe. 

Thursday,  May  4. 

I  FOREGO  every  other  engagement,  I  suspend  every  wish, 
I  banish  every  other  fear,  to  take  up  my  pen,  to  beg  of  you 
that  you  will  not  think  of  being  guilty  of  such  an  act  of 
love  as  I  can  never  thank  you  for;  but  must  for  ever 
regret.  If  I  must  continue  to  vsrite  to  you,  I  must.  I 
know  full  well  your  impatience  of  control,  when  you  have 


8  THE   HISTORY   OF 

the  least  imagination  that  your  generosity  or  friendship  is 
likely  to  be  wounded  by  it. 

My  dearest,  dearest  creature,  would  you  incur  a  maternal, 
as  I  have  a  paternal,  malediction?  Would  not  the  world 
think  there  was  an  infection  in  my  fault,  if  it  were  to  be 
followed  by  Miss  Howe  ?  There  are  some  points  so  flagrantly 
wrong  that  they  will  not  bear  to  be  argued  upon.  This  is 
one  of  them.  I  need  not  give  reasons  against  such  a  rash- 
ness. Heaven  forbid  that  it  should  be  known  that  you  had 
it  but  once  in  your  thought,  be  your  motives  ever  so  noble 
and  generous,  to  follow  so  bad  an  example,  the  rather,  as 
that  you  would,  in  such  a  case,  want  the  extenuations  that 
might  be  pleaded  in  my  favour;  and  particularly  that  one  of 
being  surprised  into  the  unhappy  step ! 

The  restraint  your  mother  lays  you  under  would  not  have 
appeared  heavy  to  you  but  on  my  account.  Would  you 
have  once  thought  it  a  hardship  to  be  admitted  to  a  part  of 
her  bed? — How  did  I  use  to  be  delighted  with  such  a  favour 
from  my  mother !  how  did  I  love  to  work  in  her  presence ! 
— So  did  you  in  the  presence  of  yours  once.  And  to  read 
to  her  in  winter  evenings  I  know  was  one  of  your  joys. — 
Do  not  give  me  cause  to  reproach  myself  on  the  reason  that 
may  be  assigned  for  the  change  in  you. 

Learn,  my  dear,  I  beseech  you,  learn  to  subdue  your  own 
passions.  Be  the  motives  what  they  will,  excess  is  excess. 
Those  passions  in  our  sex,  which  we  take  no  pains  to  sub- 
due, may  have  one  and  the  same  source  with  those  infinitely 
blacker  passions,  which  we  used  so  often  to  condemn  in  the 
violent  and  headstrong  of  the  other  sex;  and  which  may  be 
only  heightened  in  them  by  custom,  and  their  freer  education. 
Let  us  both,  my  dear,  ponder  well  this  thought;  look  into 
ourselves,  and  fear. 

If  I  write,  as  I  find  I  must,  I  insist  upon  your  forbearing 
to  write.  Your  silence  to  this  snail  be  the  sign  to  me  that 
you  will  not  think  of  the  rashness  you  threaten  me  with : 
and  that  you  will  obey  your  mother  as  to  your  own  part  of 
the  correspondence,  however;  especially  as  you  can  inform 
or  advise  me  in  every  weighty  case  by  Mr.  Hickman's  pen. 


CLARISSA   EAnLO^YE.  9 

My  trembling  writing  will  show  you,  my  dear  impetuous 
creature,  what  a  trembling  heart  you  have  given  to 

Your  ever  obliged,  or,  if  you  take  so  rash  a  step. 

Your  for  ever  disobliged, 

Clarissa  Harlowe. 

My  clothes  were  brought  to  me  just  now.  But  you  have 
so  much  discomposed  me,  that  I  have  no  heart  to  look 
into  the  trunks.  Why,  why,  my  dear,  will  you  fright  me 
with  your  flaming  love?  Discomposure  gives  distress  to  a 
weak  heart,  whether  it  arise  from  friendship  or  enmity. 

A  servant  of  Mr.  Lovelace  carries  this  to  Mr.  Hickman  for 
despatch-sake.  Let  that  worthy  man's  pen  relieve  my 
heart  from  this  new  uneasiness. 


LETTEK  V. 

Mr.  Hickman  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

[Sent  to  Wilson's  by  a  particular  hand.] 

Friday,  May  5. 

Madam, — I  have  the  honour  of  dear  Miss  Howe's  commands 
to  acquaint  you,  without  knowing  the  occasion,  '  That  she 
'  is  excessively  concerned  for  the  concern  she  has  given  you 
'  in  her  last  letter ;  and  that,  if  you  will  but  write  to  her, 
*  under  cover  as  before,  she  will  have  no  thoughts  of  what 
'  you  are  so  very  apprehensive  about.' — Yet  she  bid  me  write, 
'  That  if  she  has  but  the  least  imagination  that  she  can 
'  serve  you,  and  save  you,  those  are  her  words,  '  all  the  cen- 
'  sures  of  the  world  will  be  but  of  second  consideration  with 
'  her.'  I  have  great  temptations,  on  this  occasion,  to  ex- 
press my  own  resentments  upon  your  present  state;  but  not 
being  fully  apprised  of  what  that  is — only  conjecturing  from 


10  THE   HISTORY   OF 

the  disturbance  upon  the  mind  of  the  dearest  lady  in  the 
world  to  me,  and  the  most  sincere  of  friends  to  you,  that 
that  is  not  altogether  so  happy  as  were  to  be  wished;  and 
being,  moreover,  forbid  to  enter  into  the  cruel  subject;  I 
can  only  offer,  as  I  do,  my  best  and  faithfullest  services! 
and  wish  you  a  happy  deliverance  from  all  your  troubles. 
For  I  am, 

Most  excellent  young  lady, 

Your  faithful  and  most  obedient  servant, 

Ch.  Hickman. 


LETTEE  yi. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  Mr.  John  Belford. 

Tuesday,  May  2. 

Mercury,  as  the  fabulist  tells  us,  having  the  curiosity  to 
know  the  estimation  he  stood  in  among  mortals,  descended 
in  disguise,  and  in  a  statuary's  shop  cheapened  a  Jupiter, 
then  a  Juno,  then  one,  then  another,  of  the  dii  ma j ores; 
and  at  last  asked,  What  price  that  same  statue  of  Mercury 
bore?  Oh,  sir,  says  the  artist,  buy  one  of  the  others,  and 
I'll  throw  you  in  that  for  nothing. 

How  sheepish  must  the  god  of  thieves  look  upon  this 
rebuff  to  his  vanity. 

So  thou !  a  thousand  pounds  wouldst  thou  give  for  the 
good  opinion  of  this  single  lady — to  be  only  thought  toler- 
ably of,  and  not  quite  unworthy  of  her  conversation,  would 
make  thee  happy.  And  at  parting  last  night,  or  rather 
this  morning,  thou  madest  me  promise  a  few  lines  to  Edg- 
ware,  to  let  thee  know  what  she  thinks  of  thee,  and  of 
thy  brethren. 

Thy  thousand  pounds,  Jaclc,  is  all  thy  own:  for  most 
heartily  does  she  dislilce  ye  all — thee  as  much  as  any  of  the 
rest. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  11 

I  am  sorry  for  it,  too,  as  to  thy  part;  for  two  reasons — 
otie^  that  I  think  thy  motive  for  thy  curiosity  was  fear  or 
consciousness;  whereas  that  of  the  arch-thief  was  vanity, 
intolerable  vanity:  and  he  was  therefore  justly  sent  away 
with  a  blush  upon  his  cheeks  to  heaven,  and  could  not  brag 
— the  other,  that  I  am  afraid,  if  she  dislikes  thee,  she  dislikes 
me :  for  are  we  not  birds  of  a  feather  ? 

I  must  never  talk  of  reformation,  she  told  me,  having 
such  companions,  and  taking  such  delight,  as  I  seemed  to 
take,  in  their  frothy  conversation. 

I,  no  more  than  you.  Jack,  imagined  she  could  possibly 
like  ye:  but  then,  as  my  friends,  I  thought  a  person  of  her 
education  would  have  been  more  sparing  of  her  censures. 

I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Belford;  but  women  think  them- 
selves entitled  to  take  any  freedoms  with  us;  while  we  are 
unpolite,  forsooth,  and  I  can't  tell  what,  if  we  don't  tell  a 
pack  of  cursed  lies,  and  make  black  white,  in  their  favour — 
teaching  us  to  be  hypocrites,  yet  stigmatising  us,  at  other 
times,  for  deceivers. 

I  defended  ye  all  as  well  as  I  could:  but  you  know  there 
was  no  attempting  aught  but  a  palliative  defence,  to  one  of 
her  principles. 

I  will  summarily  give  thee  a  few  of  my  pleas. 

'  To  the  pure,  every  little  deviation  seemed  offensive :  yet 
'  I  saw  not,  that  there  was  anything  amiss  the  whole  even- 
*  ing,  either  in  the  words  or  behaviour  of  any  of  my  friends. 
'Some  people  could  talk  but  upon  one  or  two  subjects: 
'she  upon  every  one:  no  wonder,  therefore,  they  talked 
'  to  what  they  understood  best ;  and  to  mere  objects  of 
'  sense.  Had  she  honoured  us  with  more  of  her  conversa- 
'tion,  she  would  have  been  less  disgusted  with  ours;  for 
'  she  saw  how  every  one  was  prepared  to  admire  her,  when- 
'  ever  she  opened  her  lips.  You,  in  particular,  had  said, 
'  when  she  retired,  that  virtue  itself  spoke  when  she  spoke : 
'but  that  you  had  such  an  awe  upon  you,  after  she  had 
'  favoured  us  with  an  observation  or  two  on  a  subject  started, 
'  that  you  should  ever  be  afraid  in  her  company  to  be  found 
'  most  exceptionable,  when  you  intended  to  be  least  so.' 


12  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Plainly,  she  said,  she  neither  liked  my  companions  nor 
the  house  she  was  in. 

I  liked  not  the  house  any  more  than  she:  though  the 
people  were  very  obliging,  and  she  had  owned  they  were 
less  exceptionable  to  herself  than  at  first.  And  were  we  not 
about  another  of  our  own? 

She  did  not  like  Miss  Partington — let  her  fortune  be  what 
it  would,  and  she  had  heard  a  great  deal  said  of  her  fortune, 
she  should  not  choose  an  intimacy  with  her.  She  thought 
it  was  a  hardship  to  be  put  upon  such  a  difficulty  as  she  was 
put  upon  the  preceding  night,  when  there  were  lodgers  in 
the  front  house,  whom  they  had  reason  to  be  freer  with, 
than  upon  so  short  an  acquaintance  with  her. 

I  pretended  to  be  an  utter  stranger  as  to  this  particular; 
and  when  she  explained  herself  upon  it,  condemned  Mrs. 
Sinclair's  request,  and  called  it  a  confident  one. 

She  artfully  made  lighter  of  her  denial  of  the  girl  for  a 
bedfellow,  than  she  thought  of  it,  I  could  see  that;  for  it 
was  plain,  she  supposed  there  was  room  for  me  to  think  she 
had  been  either  over-nice,  or  over-cautious. 

I  offered  to  resent  Mrs.  Sinclair's  freedom. 

No;  there  was  no  great  matter  in  it.  It  was  best  to  let 
it  pass.  It  might  be  thought  more  particular  in  her  to  deny 
such  a  request,  than  in  Mrs.  Sinclair  to  make  it,  or  in  Miss 
Partington  to  expect  it  to  be  complied  with.  But  as  the 
people  below  had  a  large  acquaintance,  she  did  not  know 
how  often  she  might  have  her  retirements  invaded,  if  she 
gave  way.  And  indeed  there  were  levities  in  the  behaviour 
of  that  young  lady,  which  she  could  not  so  far  pass  over  as 
to  wish  an  intimacy  with  her. 

I  said  I  liked  Miss  Partington  as  little  as  she  could.  Miss 
Partington  was  a  silly  young  creature ;  who  seemed  too  likely 
to  justify  the  watchfulness  of  her  guardians  over  her. — But, 
nevertheless,  as  to  her  general  conversation  and  behaviour 
last  night,  I  must  own  tha,t  I  thought  the  girl  (for  girl 
she  was,  as  to  discretion)  not  exceptionable;  only  carrying 
herself  like  a  free  good-natured  creature  who  believed  her- 
self secure  in  the  honour  of  her  company. 


CLARISSA    EARLOWE.  13 

It  was  very  well  said  of  me,  she  replied:  but  if  that 
young  lady  were  so  well  satisfied  with  her  company,  she 
must  needs  say,  that  I  was  very  kind  to  suppose  her  such 
an  innocent — for  her  own  part,  she  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
London  world:  but  thought,  she  must  tell  me  plainly,  that 
she  never  was  in  such  company  in  her  life;  nor  ever  again 
wished  to  be  in  such. 

There,  Belford! — Worse  off  than  Mercury! — Art  thou 
not? 

I  was  nettled.  Hard  would  be  the  lot  of  more  discreet 
women,  as  far  as  I  knew,  than  Miss  Partington,  were  they 
to  be  judged  by  so  rigid  a  virtue  as  hers. 

Not  so,  she  said :  but  if  I  really  saw  nothing  exceptionable 
to  a  virtuous  mind,  in  that  young  person's  behaviour,  my 
ignorance  of  better  behaviour  was,  she  must  needs  tell  me, 
as  pitiable  as  hers:  and  it  were  to  be  wished  that  minds  so 
paired,  for  their  own  sakes,  should  never  be  separated. 

See,  JacTc,  what  I  get  by  my  charity! 

I  thanked  her  heartily.  But  said,  that  I  must  take  the 
liberty  to  observe,  that  good  folks  were  generally  so  unchar- 
itable, that,  devil  take  me,  if  I  would  choose  to  be  good, 
were  the  consequence  to  be  that  I  must  think  hardly  of  the 
whole  world  besides. 

She  congratulated  me  upon  my  charity;  but  told  me,  that 
to  enlarge  her  own,  she  hoped  it  would  not  be  expected  of 
her  to  approve  of  the  low  company  I  had  brought  her  into 
last  night. 

No  exception  for  thee,  Belford! — Safe  is  thy  thousand 
pounds. 

I  saw  not,  I  said,  begging  her  pardon,  that  she  liked  any- 
body—  [Plain  dealing  for  plain  dealing.  Jack! — Why  then 
did  she  abuse  my  friends  f]  However,  let  me  but  know  whom 
and  what  she  did  or  did  not  like;  and  if  possible,  I  would 
like  and  dislike  the  very  same  persons  and  things. 

She  bid  me  then,  in  a  pet,  dislike  myself. 

Cursed  severe! — Does  she  think  she  must  not  pay  for  it 
one  day,  or  one  night? — And  if  one,  many;  that's  my 
comfort. 


14  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

I  was  in  such  a  train  of  being  happy,  I  said,  before  my 
earnestness  to  procure  her  to  favour  my  friends  with  her 
company,  that  I  wished  the  devil  had  had  as  well  my  friends 
as  Miss  Partington — and  yet,  I  must  say,  that  I  saw  not 
how  good  people  could  answer  half  their  end,  which  is  to 
reform  the  wicked  by  precept  as  well  as  example,  were  they 
to  accompany  only  with  the  good. 

I  had  like  to  have  been  blasted  by  two  or  three  flashes  of 
lightning  from  her  indignant  eyes ;  and  she  turned  scornfully 
from  me,  and  retired  to  her  own  apartment. 

Once  more,  Jack,  safe,  as  thou  seest,  is  thy  thousand  pounds. 

She  says,  I  am  not  a  polite  man.  But  is  she,  in  the 
instance  before  us,  more  polite  for  a  woman? 

And  now,  dost  thou  not  think  that  I  owe  my  charmer 
some  revenge  for  her  cruelty  in  obliging  such  a  fine  young 
creature,  and  so  vast  a  fortune,  as  Miss  Partington,  to  crowd 
into  a  press-bed  with  Dorcas  the  maid-servant  of  the  proud 
refuser? — Miss  Partington  too  (with  tears)  declared,  by 
Mrs.  Sinclair,  that  would  Mrs.  Lovelace  do  her  the  honour 
of  a  visit  at  Barnet,  the  best  bed  and  best  room  in  her 
guardian's  house  should  be  at  her  service.  Thinkest  thou 
that  I  could  not  guess  at  her  dishonourable  fears  of  me? — 
that  she  apprehended  that  the  supposed  husband  would 
endeavour  to  take  possession  of  his  own? — and  that  Miss 
Partington  would  be  willing  to  contribute  to  such  a  piece  of 
justice? 

Thus,  then,  thou  both  remindest  and  def iest  me,  charmer ! 
— And  since  thou  reliest  more  on  thy  own  precaution  than 
upon  my  honour;  be  it  unto  thee,  fair  one,  as  thou  appre- 
hendest ! 

And,  now,  Jack,  let  me  know,  what  thy  opinion  and  the 
opinions  of  thy  brother  varlets  are  of  my  Gloriana. 

I  have  just  now  heard  that  Hannah  hopes  to  be  soon 
well  enough  to  attend  her  young  lady,  when  in  London. 
It  seems  the  girl  has  had  no  physician.  I  must  send  her 
one,  out  of  pure  love  and  respect  to  her  mistress.  Who 
knows  but  medicine  may  weahen  nature,  and  strengthen  the 
disease? — As  her  malady  is  not  a  fever,  very  likely  it  may 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  15 

do  so. — But  perhaps  the  wench's  hopes  are  too  forward. 
Blustering  weather  in  this  month  yet. — And  that  is  bad  for 
rheumatic  complaints. 


LETTER  VII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  May  2. 

Just  as  I  had  sealed  up  the  enclosed,  comes  a  letter  to 
my  beloved,  in  a  cover  to  me,  directed  to  Lord  M.'s.  From 
whom,  thinkest  thou  ? — From  Mrs.  Howe ! 

And  what  the  contents? 

How  should  I  know,  unless  the  dear  creature  had  com- 
municated them  to  me?  But  a  very  cruel  letter  I  believe 
it  is  hy  the  effect  it  had  upon  her.  The  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks  as  she  read  it;  and  her  colour  changed  several 
times.    No  end  of  her  persecutions,  I  think ! 

'  What  a  cruelty  in  my  fate ! '  said  the  sweet  lamenter. 
— '  Now  the  only  comfort  of  my  life  must  be  given  up  ! ' 

Miss  Howe's  correspondence,  no  doubt. 

But  should  she  be  so  much  grieved  at  this?  This  corre- 
spondence was  prohibited  before,  and  that,  to  the  daughter,  in 
the  strongest  terms:  but  yet  carried  on  by  hoth;  although 
a  hrace  of  impeccahles,  an't  please  ye.  Could  they  expect 
that  a  mother  would  not  vindicate  her  authority  ? — And  find- 
ing her  prohibition  ineffectual  with  her  perverse  daughter, 
was  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  she  would  try  what  effect 
it  would  have  upon  her  daughter's  friend? — And  now  I 
believe  the  end  will  be  effectually  answered:  for  my  beloved, 
I  daresay,  will  make  a  point  of  conscience  of  it. 

I  hate  cruelty,  especially  in  women;  and  should  have 
been  more  concerned  for  this  instance  of  it  in  Mrs.  Howe, 
had  I  not  had  a  stronger  instance  of  the  same  in  my  beloved 
to  Miss  Partington.  For  how  did  she  know,  since  she  was 
so  much  afraid  for  herself,  whom  Dorcas  might  let  in  to 
that  innocent  and  less  watchful  young  lady?     But  never- 


16  THE   HISTORY    OF 

theless  I  must  needs  own,  that  I  am  very  sorry  for  this 
prohibition,  let  it  originally  come  from  the  Harlowes,  or 
from  whom  it  will;  because  I  make  no  doubt  that  it  is 
owing  to  Miss  Howe,  in  a  great  measure,  that  my  beloved 
is  so  much  upon  her  guard,  and  thinks  so  hardly  of  me. 
And  who  can  tell,  as  characters  here  are  so  tender,  and  soine 
disguises  so  flimsy,  what  consequences  might  follow  this 
undutiful  correspondence? — I  say,  therefore,  I  am  not  sorry 
for  it:  now  will  she  not  have  anybody  to  compare  notes 
with:  anybody  to  alarm  her:  and  I  may  be  saved  the  guilt 
and  disobligation  of  inspecting  into  a  correspondence  that 
has  long  made  me  uneasy. 

How  everything  works  for  me  I — Why  will  this  charming 
creature  make  such  contrivances  necessary,  as  will  increase 
my  trouble,  and  my  guilt  too,  as  some  will  account  it?  But 
why,  rather  I  should  ask,  will  she  fight  against  her  stars? 


LETTER  VIII. 

Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Edgware,  Tuesday  Night,  May  2. 

Without  staying  for  the  promised  letter  from  you  to  in- 
form us  what  the  lady  says  of  us,  I  write  to  tell  you,  that  we 
are  all  of  one  opinion  with  regard  to  her;  which  is,  that 
there  is  not  of  her  age  a  finer  woman  in  the  world,  as  to 
her  understanding.  As  for  her  person,  she  is  at  the  age  of 
bloom,  and  an  admirable  creature;  a  perfect  beauty:  but 
this  poorer  praise,  a  man,  who  has  been  honoured  with  her 
conversation,  can  hardly  descend  to  give;  and  yet  she  was 
brought  amongst  us  contrary  to  her  will. 

Permit  me,  dear  Lovelace,  to  be  a  mean  of  saving  this 
excellent  creature  from  the  dangers  she  hourly  runs  from 
the  most  plotting  heart  in  the  world.  In  a  former,  I  pleaded 
your  own  family.  Lord  M.'s  wishes  particularly;  and  then 
I  had  not  seen  her:  but  now  I  join  her  sake,  hofiour's  sake. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  17 

motives  of  justice,  generosity,  gratitude,  and  humanity,  which 
are  all  concerned  in  the  preservation  of  so  fine  a  woman. 
Thou  knowest  not  the  anguish  I  should  have  had  (whence 
arising,  I  cannot  devise),  had  I  not  known  before  I  set 
out  this  morning,  that  the  incomparable  creature  had  dis- 
appointed thee  in  thy  cursed  view  of  getting  her  to  admit  the 
specious  Partington  for  a  bedfellow. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  talk  of  this  lady  ever  since  I  saw 
her.  There  is  something  so  awful,  and  yet  so  sweet,  in 
her  aspect,  that  were  I  to  have  the  virtues  and  the  graces 
all  drawn  in  one  piece,  they  should  be  taken,  every  one  of 
them,  from  different  airs  and  attributes  in  her.  She  was 
born  to  adorn  the  age  she  was  given  to,  and  would  be  an 
ornament  to  the  first  dignity.  What  a  piercing,  yet  gentle 
eye;  every  glance  I  thought  mingled  with  love  and  fear 
of  you !  What  a  sweet  smile  darting  through  the  cloud  that 
overspread  her  fair  face,  demonstrating  that  she  had  more 
apprehensions  and  grief  at  her  heart  than  she  cared  to 
express ! 

You  may  think  what  I  am  going  to  write  too  flighty; 
but,  by  my  faith,  I  have  conceived  such  a  profound  rever- 
ence for  her  sense  and  judgment,  that,  far  from  thinking 
the  man  excusable  who  should  treat  her  basely,  I  am  ready 
to  regret  that  such  an  angel  of  a  woman  should  even  marry. 
She  is  in  my  eye  all  mind:  and  were  she  to  meet  with  a 
man  all  mind  likewise,  why  should  the  charming  qualities 
she  is  mistress  of  be  endangered?  Why  should  such  an 
angel  be  plunged  so  low  as  into  the  vulgar  offices  of  domestic 
life?  Were  she  mine,  I  should  hardly  wish  to  see  her  a 
mother,  unless  there  were  a  kind  of  moral  certainty  that 
minds  like  hers  could  be  propagated.  For  why,  in  short, 
should  not  the  work  of  bodies  be  left  to  mere  bodies?  I 
know,  that  you  yourself  have  an  opinion  of  her  little  less 
exalted.  Belton,  Mowbray,  Tourville,  are  all  of  my  mind ; 
are  full  of  her  praises;  and  swear  it  would  be  a  million  of 
pities  to  ruin  a  woman  in  whose  fall  none  but  devils  can 
rejoice. 

What  must  that  merit  and  excellence  be  which  can  extort 


18  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

this  from  us,  freelivers,  like  yourself,  and  all  of  us  your 
partial  friends,  who  have  joined  with  you  in  your  just 
resentments  against  the  rest  of  her  family,  and  offered  our 
assistance  to  execute  your  vengeance  on  them?  But  we  can- 
not think  it  reasonable  that  you  should  punish  an  innocent 
creature,  who  loves  you  so  well,  and  who  is  in  your  pro- 
tection, and  has  suffered  so  much  for  you,  for  the  faults  of 
her  relations. 

And  here  let  me  put  a  serious  question  or  two.  Thinkest 
thou,  truly  admirable  as  this  lady  is,  that  the  end  thou  pro- 
posest  to  thyself,  if  obtained,  is  answerable  to  the  means,  to 
the  trouble  thou  givest  thyself,  and  to  the  perfidies,  tricks, 
stratagems,  and  contrivances  thou  hast  already  been  guilty 
of,  and  still  meditatest?  In  every  real  excellence  she  sur- 
passes all  her  sex.  But  in  the  article  thou  seekest  to  subdue 
her  for,  a  mere  sensualist,  a  Partington,  a  Horton,  a  Martin, 
would  make  a  sensualist  a  thousand  times  happier  than  she 
either  will  or  can. 

Sweet  are  the  joys  that  come  with  willingness. 

And  wouldst  thou  make  her  unhappy  for  her  whole  life, 
and  thyself  not  happy  for  a  single  moment? 

Hitherto,  it  is  not  too  late;  and  that  perhaps  is  as  much 
as  can  be  said,  if  thou  meanest  to  preserve  her  esteem  and 
good  opinion,  as  well  as  person;  for  I  think  it  is  impossible 
she  can  get  out  of  thy  hands  now  she  is  in  this  accursed 
house.  Oh  that  damned  hypocritical  Sinclair,  as  thou  callest 
her !  How  was  it  possible  she  should  behave  so  speciously 
as  she  did  all  the  time  the  lady  stayed  with  us ! — Be  honest, 
and  marry;  and  be  thankful  that  she  will  condescend  to 
have  thee.  If  thou  dost  not,  thou  wilt  be  the  worst  of  men; 
and  wilt  be  condemned  in  this  world  and  the  next:  as  I  am 
sure  thou  oughtest,  and  shouldest  too,  wert  thou  to  be 
judged  by  one,  who  never  before  was  so  much  touched  in  a 
woman's  favour ;  and  whom  thou  knowest  to  be 

Thy  partial  friend,  ^  ^ 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  19 

Our  companions  consented  that  I  should  withdraw  to  write 
to  the  above  effect.  They  can  make  nothing  of  the 
characters  we  write  in;  so  I  read  this  to  them.  They 
approve  of  it;  and  of  their  own  motion  each  man  would 
set  his  name  to  it.  I  would  not  delay  sending  it,  for  fear 
of  some  detestable  scheme  taking  place. 

Thomas  Belton, 
Ei  CHARD  Mowbray, 
James  Tourville. 

Just  now  are  brought  me  both  yours.  I  vary  not  my  opinion, 
nor  forbear  my  earnest  prayers  to  you  in  her  behalf,  not- 
withstanding her  dislike  of  me. 


LETTEE  IX. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Wednesday,  May  3. 

When  I  have  already  taken  pains  to  acquaint  thee  in 
full  with  regard  to  my  views,  designs,  and  resolutions,  with 
regard  to  this  admirable  woman,  it  is  very  extraordinary 
that  thou  shouldst  vapour  as  thou  dost  in  her  behalf,  when 
I  have  made  no  trial,  no  attempt:  and  yet,  givest  it  as  thy 
opinion  in  a  former  letter,  that  advantage  may  he  taken  of 
the  situation  she  is  in;  and  that  she  may  he  overcome. 

Most  of  thy  reflections,  particularly  that  which  respects 
the  difference  as  to  the  joys  to  be  given  by  the  virtuous  and 
the  libertine  of  her  sex,  are  fitter  to  come  in  as  after  reflec- 
tions than  as  antecedencies. 

I  own  with  thee,  and  with  the  poet,  that  sweet  are  the  joys 

that  come  with  willingness. — But  is  it  to  be  expected,  that 

N /a  woman  of  education,   and  a   lover  of  forms,  will  yield 

before  she  is  attacked?    And  have  I  so  much  as  summoned 

Vol.  IV— 4. 


20  THE   HISTORY    OF 

this  to  surrender?  I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  meet  with  diffi- 
culty. I  must  therefore  make  my  first  effort  by  surprise. 
There  may  possibly  be  some  cruelty  necessary:  but  there 
may  be  consent  in  struggle;  there  may  be  yielding  in  re- 
sistance. But  the  first  conflict  over,  whether  the  following 
may  not  be  weaker  and  weaker,  till  willingness  ensue,  is  the 
point  to  be  tried.  I  will  illustrate  what  I  have  said  by  the 
simile  of  a  bird  new  caught.     We  begin,  when  boys,  with 

it  birds;  and  when  grown  up,  go  on  to  women;  and  both  per- 
haps, in  turn,  experience  our  sportive  cruelty. 

Hast  thou  not  observed  the  charming  gradations  by 
which  the  ensnared  volatile  has  been  brought  to  bear  with 
its  new  condition?  how,  at  first,  refusing  all  sustenance,  it 
beats  and  bruises  itself  against  its  wires,  till  it  makes  its 
gay  plumage  fly  about,  and  overspread  its  well-secured  cage. 
jSTow  it  gets  out  its  head;  sticking  only  at  its  beautiful 
shoulders :  then,  with  difficulty,  drawing  back  its  head,  it 
gasps  for  breath,  and  erectly  perched  with  meditating  eyes, 
first  surveys,  and  then  attempts  its  wired  canopy.  As  it 
gets  breath,  with  renewed  rage  it  beats  and  bruises  again 
its  pretty  head  and  sides,  bites  the  wires,  and  pecks  at  the 
fingers  of  its  delighted  tamer.  Till  at  last,  finding  its 
efforts  ineffectual,  quite  tired  and  breathless,  it  lays  itself 
down  and  pants  at  the  bottom  of  the  cage,  seeming  to  bemoan 
its  cruel  fate  and  forfeited  liberty.  And  after  a  few  days, 
its  struggles  to  escape  still  diminishing  as  it  finds  it  to  no 
purpose  to  attempt  it,  its  new  habitation  becomes  familiar; 
and  it  hops  about  from  perch  to  perch,  resumes  its  wonted 
cheerfulness,  and  every  day  sings  a  song  to  amuse  itself  and 
reward  its  keeper. 

Now  let  me  tell  thee,  that  I  have  known  a  bird  actually 
starve  itself,   and  die  with  grief,  at  its  being  caught  and 

/  caged.  But  never  did  I  meet  with  a  woman  who  was  so  silly. 
— Yet  have  I  heard  the  dear  souls  most  vehemently  threaten 
their  own  lives  on  such  an  occasion.  But  it  is  saying  nothing 
in  a  woman's  favour,  if  we  do  not  allow  her  to  have  more 
sense  than  a  bird.  And  yet  we  must  all  own,  that  it  is 
more  difficult  to  catch  a  bird  than  a  lady. 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  21 

To  pursue  the  comparison. — If  the  disappointment  of  the 
captivated  lady  be  very  great,  she  will  threaten,  indeed,  as 
I  said :  she  will  even  refuse  her  sustenance  for  some  time, 
especially  if  you  entreat  her  much,  and  she  thinks  she  gives 
you  concern  by  her  refusal.  But  then  the  stomach  of  the 
dear  sullen  one  will  soon  return.  'Tis  pretty  to  see  how  she 
comes  to  by  degrees :  pressed  by  appetite,  she  will  first  steal, 
perhaps,  a  weeping  morsel  by  herself;  then  be  brought  to 
piddle  and  sigh,  and  sigh  and  piddle  before  you;  now  and 
then,  if  her  viands  be  unsavoury,  swallowing  with  them  a 
relishing  tear  or  two :  then  she  comes  to  eat  and  drink,  to 
oblige  you :  then  resolves  to  live  for  your  sake :  her  exclama- 
tions will,  in  the  next  place,  be  turned  into  blandishments; 
her  vehement  upbraidings  into  gentle  murmuring — how  dare 
you,  traitor ! — into  how  could  you,  dearest !  She  will  draw 
you  to  her,  instead  of  pushing  you  from  her :  no  longer,  vsdth 
unsheathed  claws,  will  she  resist  you;  but,  like  a  pretty, 
playful,  wanton  kitten  with  gentle  paws,  and  concealed 
talons,  tap  your  cheek,  and  with  intermingled  smiles,  and 
tears,  and  caresses,  implore  your  consideration  for  her,  and 
your  constancy :  all  the  favour  she  then  has  to  ask  of  you ! — 
And  this  is  the  time,  were  it  given  to  man  to  confine  himself 
to  one  object,  to  be  happier  every  day  than  another. 

N'ow,  Belford,  were  I  to  go  no  further  than  I  have  gone 
with  my  beloved  Miss  Harlowe,  how  shall  I  know  the  dif- 
ference between  her  and  another  bird?  To  let  her  fly  now, 
what  a  pretty  jest  would  that  be ! — How  do  I  know,  except 
I  try,  whether  she  may  not  be  brought  to  sing  me  a  fine 
song,  and  to  be  as  well  contented  as  I  have  brought  other 
birds  to  be,  and  very  shy  ones  too? 

But  now  let  us  reflect  a  little  upon  the  confounded  par- 
tiality of  us  human  creatures.  I  can  give  two  or  three 
familiar,  and  if  they  were  not  familiar,  they  would  be 
shocking,  instances  of  the  cruelty  both  of  men  and  women, 
with  respect  to  other  creatures,  perhaps  as  worthy  as  (at 
least  more  innocent  than)  themselves.  By  my  soul.  Jack,  B 
there  is  more  of  the  savage  in  human  nature  than  we  are  com-  ' 
monly  aware  of.     Nor  is  it,  after  all,  so  much  amiss,  that 


22  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

we  sometimes  avenge  the  more  innocent  animals  upon  our 
own  species. 

To  particulars: 

How  usual  a  thing  is  it  for  women  as  well  as  men,  with- 
out the  least  remorse,  to  ensnare,  to  cage,  and  torment,  and 
even  with  burning  knitting-needles  to  put  out  the  eyes  of 
the  poor  feathered  songster  [thou  seest  I  have  not  yet  done 
with  birds]  ;  which  however,  in  proportion  to  its  bulk,  has 
more  life  than  themselves  (for  a  bird  is  all  soul) ;  and  of 
consequence  has  as  much  feeling  as  the  human  creature ! 
when  at  the  same  time,  if  an  honest  fellow,  by  the  gentlest 
persuasion  and  the  softest  arts,  has  the  good  luck  to  prevail 
upon  a  mew'd-up  lady,  to  countenance  her  own  escape,  and 
she  consents  to  break  cage,  and  be  set  a  fljang  into  the  all- 
cheering  air  of  liberty,  mercy  on  us !  what  an  outcry  is 
generally  raised  against  him ! 

Just  like  what  you  and  I  once  saw  raised  in  a  paltry 
village  near  Chelmsford,  after  a  poor  hungry  fox,  who, 
watching  his  opportunity,  had  seized  by  the  neck,  and 
shouldered  a  sleek-feathered  goose:  at  what  time  we  beheld 
the  whole  vicinage  of  boys  and  girls,  old  men,  and  old 
women,  all  the  furrows  and  wrinkles  of  the  latter  filled  up 
with  malice  for  the  time;  the  old  men  armed  with  prongs, 
pitch-forks,  clubs,  and  catsticks;  the  old  women  with  mops, 
brooms,  fire-shovels,  tongs,  and  pokers;  and  the  younger 
fry  with  dirt,  stones,  and  brickbats,  gathering  as  they  ran 
like  a  snowball,  in  pursuit  of  the  wind-outstripping  prowler ; 
all  the  mongrel  curs  of  the  circumjacencies  yelp,  yelp,  yelp, 
at  their  heels,  completing  the  horrid  chorus. 

Eememberest  thou  not  this  scene?  Surely  thou  must. 
My  imagination,  inflamed  by  a  tender  sympathy  for  the 
danger  of  the  adventurous  marauder,  represents  it  to  my  eye 
as  if  it  were  but  yesterday.  And  dost  thou  not  recollect  how 
generously  glad  we  were,  as  if  our  own  case,  that  honest 
reynard,  by  the  help  of  a  lucky  stile,  over  which  both  old 
and  young  tumbled  upon  one  another,  and  a  winding  course, 
escaped  their  brutal  fury  and  flying  catsticks;  and  how, 
in  fancy,  we  followed  him  to  his  undiscovered  retreat;  and 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  33 

imagined  we  beheld  the  intrepid  thief  enjoying  his  dear- 
earned  purchase  with  a  delight  proportioned  to  his  past 
danger  ? 

I  once  made  a  charming  little  savage  severely  repent  the 
delight  she  took  in  seeing  her  tabby  favourite  make  cruel 
sport  with  a  pretty,  sleek,  bead-eyed  mouse,  before  she  de- 
voured it.  Egad,  my  love,  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  sat  medi- 
tating the  scene,  I  am  determined  to  lie  in  wait  for  a  fit 
opportunity  to  try  how  thou  wilt  like  to  be  tost  over  my  head, 
and  be  caught  again:  how  thou  wilt  like  to  be  parted  from 
me,  and  pulled  to  me.  Yet  will  I  rather  give  life  than  take 
it  away,  as  this  barbarous  quadruped  has  at  last  done  by 
her  prey.  And  after  all  was  over  between  my  girl  and  me, 
I  reminded  her  of  the  incident  to  which  my  resolution  was 
owing. 

Nor  had  I  at  another  time  any  mercy  upon  the  daughter 
of  an  old  epicure,  who  had  taught  the  girl,  without  the 
least  remorse,  to  roast  lobsters  alive;  to  cause  a  poor  pig  to 
be  whipt  to  death;  to  scrape  carp  the  contrary  way  of  tlie 
scales,  making  them  leap  in  the  stewpan,  and  dressing  them 
in  their  own  blood  for  sauce.  And  this  for  luxury  sake,  and 
to  provoke  an  appetite;  which  I  had  without  stimulation, 
in  my  way,  and  that  I  can  toll  thee  a  very  ravenous  one. 

Many  more  instances  of  the  like  nature  could  I  give, 
were  I  to  leave  nothing  to  myself,  to  show  that  the  best 
take  the  same  liberties,  and  perhaps  worse,  with  some  sort 
of  creatures,  that  we  take  with  others ;  all  creatures  still ! 
and  creatures  too,  as  I  have  observed  above,  replete  witli 
strong  life,  and  sensible  feeling ! — If  therefore  people  pretend 
to  mercy,  let  mercy  go  through  all  their  actions.  I  have 
read  somewhere,  that  a  merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  heast. 

So  much  at  present  for  those  parts  of  thy  letter  in  which 
thou  urgest  to  me  motives  of  compassion  for  the  lady. 

But  I  guess  at  thy  principal  motive  in  this  thy  earnest- 
ness in  behalf  of  this  charming  creature.  I  know  that  thou 
correspondest  with  Lord  M.  who  is  impatient,  and  has  long 
been  desirous  to  seejme. shackled.  And  thou  wantest  to  make 
a  merit  with  the  uncle,  with  a  view  to  one  of  his  nieces. 


24  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

But  knowest  thou  not,  that  my  consent  will  be  wanting  to 
complete  thy  wishes? — And  what  a  commendation  will  it 
be  of  thee  to  such  a  girl  as  Charlotte,  when  I  shall  acquaint 
her  with  the  affront  thou  puttest  upon  the  whole  sex,  by 
asking,  Whether  I  think  my  reward,  when  I  have  subdued 
the  most  charming  woman  in  the  world,  will  he  equal  to  my 
trouble? — Which,  thinkest  thou,  will  a  woman  of  spirit 
soonest  forgive;  the  undervaluing  varlet  who  can  put  such  a 
question;  or  him,  who  prefers  the  pursuit  and  conquest  of 
a  fine  woman  to  all  the  joys  of  life?  Have  I  not  known 
even  a  virtuous  woman,  as  she  would  be  thought,  vow  ever- 
lasting antipathy  to  a  man  who  gave  out  that  she  was  too 
old  for  him  to  attempt  f  And  did  not  Essex's  personal  re- 
flection on  Queen  Elizabeth,  that  she  was  old  and  crooked, 
contribute  more  to  his  ruin  than  his  treason? 

But  another  word  or  two,  as  to  thy  objection  relating  to 
my  trouble  and  reward. 

Does  not  the  keen  fox-hunter  endanger  his  neck  and  his 
bones  in  pursuit  of  a  vermin,  which,  when  killed,  is  neither 
fit  food  for  men  nor  dogs? 

Do  not  the  hunters  of  the  noble  game  value  the  venison 
less  than  the  sport? 

Why  then  should  I  be  reflected  upon,  and  the  sex  af- 
fronted, for  my  patience  and  perseverance  in  the  most  noble 
of  all  chases;  and  for  not  being  a  poacher  in  love,  as  thy 
question  may  be  made  to  imply? 

Learn  of  thy  master,  for  the  future,  to  treat  more  respect- 
fully a  sex  that  yields  us  our  principal  diversions  and 
delights. 

Proceed  anon. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  25 


LETTEE  X. 
Mr.  Lovelace. 

[In  continuation.] 

Well  sayest  thou,  that  mine  is  the  most  plotting  heart  in 
the  world.  Thou  dost  me  honour ;  and  I  thank  thee  heartily. 
Thou  art  no  bad  judge.  How  like  Boileau's  parson  I  strut 
behind  my  double  chin!  Am  I  not  obliged  to  deserve  thy 
compliment?  And  wouldst  thou  have  me  repent  of  a  mur- 
der before  I  have  committed  it? 

'  The  Virtues  and  Graces  are  this  lady^s  handmaids.  She 
*  was  certainly  born  to  adorn  the  age  she  was  given  to.' — 
Well  said.  Jack — '  And  would  be  an  ornament  to  the  first 
'  dignity.'  But  what  praise  is  that,  unless  the  first  dignity 
were  adorned  with  the  first  merit  ? — Dignity  !  gew-gaw  ! — 
First  dignity!  thou  idiot! — Art  thou,  who  knowest  me^  so 
taken  with  ermine  and  tinsel? — I,  who  have  won  the  gold, 
am  only  fit  to  wear  it.  For  the  future  therefore  correct 
thy  style,  and  proclaim  her  the  ornament  of  the  happiest 
man,  and  (respecting  herself  and  sex)  the  greatest  con- 
queror in  the  world. 

Then,  that  she  loves  me,  as  thou  imaginest,  by  no  means 
appears  clear  to  me.  Her  conditional  offers  to  renounce 
me;  the  little  confidence  she  places  in  me;  entitle  me  to 
ask,  what  merit  can  she  have  with  a  man  who  won  her  in 
spite  of  herself;  and  who  fairly,  in  set  and  obstinate  battle, 
took  her  prisoner? 

As  to  what  thou  inferrest  from  her  eije  when  with  us, 
thou  knowest  nothing  of  her  heart  from  that,  if  thou  imaginest 
there  was  one  glance  of  love  shot  from  it.  Well  did  I  note 
her  eye,  and  plainly  did  I  see,  that  it  was  all  but  just  civil 
disgust  to  me  and  to  the  company  I  had  brought  her  into. 
Her  early  retiring  that  night,  against  all  entreaty,  might 
have  convinced  thee  that  there  was  very  little  of  the  gentle 
in  her  heart  for  me.  And  her  eye  never  knew  what  it  was 
to  contradict  her  heart. 


26  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

She  is,  thou  sayest,  all  mind.  So  say  I.  But  why  shouldst 
thou  imagine  that  such  a  mind  as  hers,  meeting  with  such 
a  one  as  mine,  and,  to  dwell  upon  the  word,  meeting  with 
an  inclination  in  hers,  should  not  propagate  minds  like  her 
own? 

Were  I  to  take  thy  stupid  advice,  and  marry,  what  a 
/  figure  should  I  make  in  rakish  annals !  The  lady  in  my 
power:  yet  not  have  intended  to  put  herself  in  my  power: 
declaring  against  love,  and  a  rebel  to  it:  so  much  open-eyed 
caution:  no  confidence  in  my  honour:  her  family  expecting 
the  worst  hath  passed:  herself  seeming  to  expect  that  the 
worst  will  be  attempted:  [Priscilla  Partington  for  that!] 
What!  wouldst  thou  not  have  me  act  in  character? 

But  why  callest  thou  the  lady  innocetit?  And  why  sayest 
thou  she  loves  me? 

By  innocent,   with  regard   to   me,   and   not  taken   as   a 

general  character,  I  must  insist  upon  it  she  is  not  innocent. 

Can  she  be  innocent,  who,  by  wishing  to  shackle  me  in  the 

/prime  and  glory  of  my  youth,  with  such  a  capacity  as  I 

have  for  noble  mischief,*  would  make  my  perdition  more 

certain,  were  I  to  break,  as  I  doubt  I   should,  the  most 

solemn  vow  I  could  make?     I  say  no  man  ought  to  take 

even  a  common  oath,  who  thinks  he  cannot  keep  it.     This 

^  is  conscience !     This  is  honour ! — And  when  I  think  I  can 

/    keep  the  marriage  vow,  then  will  it  be  time  to  marry. 

No  doubt  of  it,  as  thou  sayest,  the  devils  would  rejoice 
in  the  fall  of  such  a  woman.  But  this  is  my  confidence, 
that  I  shall  have  it  in  my  power  to  marry  when  I  will. 
And  if  I  do  her  this  justice,  shall  I  not  have  a  claim  to  her 
gratitude?  And  will  she  not  think  herself  the  obliged, 
rather  than  the  obligor?  Then  let  me  tell  thee,  Belford, 
it  is  impossible  so  far  to  hurt  the  morals  of  this  lady,  as 
thou  and  thy  brother  varlets  have  hurt  others  of  the  sex, 
who  now  are  casting  about  the  town  firebrands  and  double 
death.     Take  ye  that  thistle  to  mumble  upon. 

A  SHORT  interruption.     I  now  resume. 

*  See  Letter  XXI.,  paragraph  4,  of  Vol.  III. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  27 

That  the  morals  of  this  lady  cannot  fail,  is  a  considera- 
tion that  will  lessen  the  guilt  on  both  sides.  And  if,  when 
subdued,  she  knows  but  how  to  middle  the  matter  between 
virtue  and  love,  then  will  she  be  a  wife  for  me :  for  already 
I  am  convinced  that  there  is  not  a  woman  in  the  world 
that  is  love-proof  and  plot-proof,  if  she  be  not  the 
person. 

And  now  imagine  (the  charmer  overcome)  thou  seest 
me  sitting  supinely  cross-kneed,  reclining  on  my  sofa,  the 
god  of  love  dancing  in  my  eyes,  and  rejoicing  in  every 
mantling  feature;  the  sweet  rogue,  late  such  a  proud  rogue, 
wholly  in  my  power,  moving  up  slowly  to  me,  at  my  beck, 
with  heaving  sighs,  half-pronounced  upbraidings  from  mur- 
muring lips,  her  finger  in  her  eye,  and  quickening  her  pace 
at  my  Come  hither,  dearest! 

One  hand  stuck  in  my  side,  the  other  extended  to  en- 
courage her  bashful  approach — Kiss  me,  love! — sweet,  as 
Jack  Belford  says,  are  the  joys  that  come  with  willingness. 

She  tenders  her  purple  mouth  [her  coral  lips  will  be 
purple  then.  Jack !]  :  sigh  not  so  deeply,  my  beloved ! — 
Happier  hours  await  thy  humble  love,  than  did  thy  proud 
resistance. 

Once  more  bent  to  my  ardent  lips  the  swanny  glossiness 
of  a  neck  late  so  stately. — 

There's  my  precious ! 

Again ! 

Obliging  loveliness ! 

Oh,  my  ever-blooming  glory !  I  have  tried  thee  enough. 
To-morrow's  sun — 

Then  I  rise,  and  fold  to  my  almost-talking  heart  the 
throbbing-bosomed  charmer. 

And  now  shall  thy  humble  pride  confess  its  obligation 
to  me ! 

To-morrow's  sun — and  then  I  disengage  myself  from  the 
bashful  passive,  and  stalk  about  the  room — to-morrow's  sun 
shall  gild  the  altar  at  which  my  vows  shall  be  paid  thee ! 

Then,  Jack,  the  rapture !  then  the  darted  sunbeams  from 
her  gladdened  eye,  drinking  up,  at  one  sip,  the  precious 


28  THE   HISTORY    OF 

distillation  from  the  pearl-dropt  cheek !  Then  hands  ar- 
dently folded,  eyes  seeming  to  pronounce,  God  bless  my 
Lovelace !  to  supply  the  joy-locked  tongue :  her  transports  too 
strong,  and  expression  too  weak,  to  give  utterance  to  her 
grateful  meanings  ! — All — all  the  studies — all  the  studies 
of  her  future  life  vowed  and  devoted  (when  she  can  speak) 
to  acknowledge  and  return  the  perpetuated  obligation! 

If  I  could  bring  my  charmer  to  this,  would  it  not  be 
the  eligible  of  eligibles? — Is  it  not  worth  trying  for? — As 
I  said,  I  can  marry  her  when  I  will.  She  can  be  nobody's 
but  mine,  neither  for  shame,  nor  by  choice,  nor  yet  by  address : 
for  who,  that  knows  my  character,  believes  that  the  worst 
she  dreads  is  now  to  be  dreaded? 

I  have  the  highest  opinion  that  man  can  have  (thou 
knowest  I  have)  of  the  merit  and  perfections  of  this  ad- 
mirable woman ;  of  her  virtue  and  honour  too,  although  thou, 
in  a  former,  art  of  opinion  that  she  may  he  overcome*  Am  I 
not  therefore  obliged  to  go  further,  in  order  to  contradict 
thee,  and  as  I  have  often  urged,  to  be  sure  that  she  is  what 
I  really  think  her  to  be,  and,  if  I  am  ever  to  marry  her, 
hope  to  find  her? 

Then  this  lady  is  a  mistress  of  our  passions :  no  one  ever 
had  to  so  much  perfection  the  art  of  moving.  This  all  her 
family  know,  and  have  equally  feared  and  revered  her  for  it. 
This  I  know  too ;  and  doubt  not  more  and  more  to  experience. 
How  charmingly  must  this  divine  creature  warble  forth  (if 
a  proper  occasion  be  given)  her  melodious  elegiacs! — Infinite 
beauties  are  there  in  a  weeping  eye,  I  first  taught  the  two 
nymphs  below  to  distinguish  the  several  accents  of  the 
lamentahle  in  a  new  subject,  and  how  admirably  some,  more 
than  others,  become  their  distresses. 

But  to  return  to  thy  objections — Thou  wilt  perhaps  tell 
me,  in  the  names  of  thy  brethren,  as  well  as  in  thy  own 
name,  that  among  all  the  objects  of  your  respective  attempts, 
there  was  not  one  of  the  rank  and  the  merit  of  my  charming 
Miss  Harlowe. 

But  let  me  ask,  has  it  not  been  a  constant  maxim  with 
*  See  Letter  XLIX.,  paragraph  9,  of  Vol.  III. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  29 

us,  that  the  greater  the  77ierit  on  the  woman's  side,  the 
nobler  the  victory  on  the  man's?  And  as  to  rank,  sense 
of  honour,  sense  of  shame,  pride  of  family,  may  make 
rifled  rank  get  up,  and  shake  itself  to  rights:  and  if  any- 
thing come  of  it,  such  a  one  may  suffer  only  in  her  pride, 
by  being  obliged  to  take  up  with  a  second-rate  match  instead 
of  a  first;  and,  as  it  may  fall  out,  be  the  happier,  as  well 
as  the  more  useful,  for  the  misadventure;  since  (taken  off 
of  her  public  gaddings,  and  domesticated  by  her  disgrace) 
she  will  have  reason  to  think  herself  obliged  to  the  man 
who  has  saved  her  from  further  reproach;  while  her  fortune 
and  alliance  will  lay  an  obligation  upon  him;  and  her  past 
fall,  if  she  have  prudence  and  consciousness,  will  be  his 
present  and  future  security. 

But  a  poor  girl  [such  a  one  as  my  Rosebud,  for  instance] 
having  no  recalls  from  education;  being  driven  out  of  every 
family  that  pretends  to  reputation;  persecuted  most  perhaps 
by  such  as  have  only  kept  their  secret  better;  and  having  no 
refuge  to  fly  to — the  common,  the  stews,  the  street,  is  the 
fate  of  such  a  poor  wretch;  penur}^,  want,  and  disease,  her 
sure  attendants;  and  an  untimely  end  perhaps  closes  the 
miserable  scene. 

And  will  you  not  now  all  join  to  say,  that  it  is  more 
manly  to  attack  a  lion  than  a  sheep? — Thou  knowest  that 
I  always  illustrated  my  eagleship,  by  aiming  at  the  noblest 
quarries;  and  by  disdaining  to  make  a  stoop  at  wrens,  phyl- 
tits,*  and  wag-tails. 

The  worst  respecting  myself,  in  the  case  before  me,  is 
that  my  triumph,  when  completed,  will  be  so  glorious  a 
one,  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  keep  up  to  it.  All  my 
future  attempts  must  be  poor  to  this.  I  shall  be  as  unhappy, 
after  a  while,  from  my  reflections  upon  this  conquest,  as 
Don  John  of  Austria  was  in  his,  on  the  renowned  victory  of 

*  Fhyl-iits,  q.d.  Phyllis-tits,  in  opposition  to  tom-tits.  It  needs 
not  now  be  observed,  that  Mr.  Lovelace,  in  the  wanton  gaiety  of  his 
heart,  often  takes  liberties  of  coining  words  and  phrases  in  his  let- 
ters to  this  his  familiar  friend.  See  his  ludicrous  reason  for  it  in 
Letter  XXIII.   of   Vol.   III.,   paragraph  antepenult. 


30  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Lepanto,  when  he  found  that  none  of  his  future  achieve- 
ments could  keep  pace  with  his  early  glory. 

I  am  sensible  that  my  pleas  and  my  reasoning  may  be 
easily  answered,  and  perhaps  justly  censured;  but  by  whom 
censured?  Not  by  any  of  the  confraternity,  whose  con- 
stant course  of  life,  even  long  before  I  became  your  general, 
to  this  hour,  has  justified  what  ye  now  in  a  fit  of  squeamish- 
ness,  and  through  envy,  condemn.  Having,  therefore,  vin- 
dicated myself  and  my  intentions  to  you^  that  is  all  I  am 
at  present  concerned  for. 

Be  convinced  then,  that  /  (according  to  our  principles) 
am  right,  tliou  wrong;  or,  at  least,  be  silent.  But  I  com- 
mand thee  to  he  convinced.  And  in  thy  next  be  sure  to  tell 
me  that  thou  art. 


LETTER  XI. 
Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Edgware,   Thursday,   May  4. 

I  KNOW  that  thou  art  so  abandoned  a  man,  that  to  give 
thee  the  best  reasons  in  the  world  against  what  thou  hast 
once  resolved  upon  will  be  but  acting  the  madman  whom 
once  we  saw  trying  to  buffet  down  a  hurricane  with  his 
hat.  I  hope,  however,  that  the  lady's  merit  will  still  avail 
her  with  thee.  But,  if  thou  persistest;  if  thou  wilt  avenge 
thyself  on  this  sweet  lamb  which  thou  hast  singled  out 
from  a  flock  thou  hatest,  for  the  faults  of  the  dogs  who 
kept  it:  if  thou  art  not  to  be  moved  by  beauty,  by  learn- 
ing, by  prudence,  by  innocence,  all  shining  out  in  one 
charming  object;  but  she  must  fall,  fall  by  the  man  whom 
she  has  chosen  for  her  protector;  I  would  not  for  a  thou- 
sand worlds  have  thy  crime  to  answer  for. 

Upon  my  faith,  Lovelace,  the  subject  sticks  with  mo, 
notwithstanding  I  find  I  have  not  the  honour  of  the  lady's 
good  opinion.    And  the  more,  when  I  reflect  upon  her  father's 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  31 

brutal  curse,  and  the  villainous  hard-heartedness  of  all  her 
family.  But,  nevertheless,  I  should  be  desirous  to  know  {if 
thou  wilt  proceed)  by  what  gradations,  arts,  and  contri- 
vances thou  effectest  thy  ingrateful  purpose.  And,  0  Love- 
lace, I  conjure  thee,  if  thou  art  a  man^  let  not  the  specious 
devils  thou  hast  brought  her  among  be  suffered  to  triumph 
over  her;  nor  make  her  the  victim  of  unmanly  artifices. 
If  she  yield  to  fair  seductions,  if  I  may  so  express  myself ! 
if  thou  canst  raise  a  weakness  in  her  by  love,  or  by  arts 
not  inhuman;  I  shall  the  less  pity  her:  and  shall  then  con- 
clude that  there  is  not  a  woman  in  the  world  who  can  resist 
a  bold  and  resolute  lover. 

A  messenger  is  just  now  arrived  from  my  uncle.  The 
mortification,  it  seems,  is  got  to  his  knee;  and  the  surgeons 
declare  that  he  cannot  live  many  days.  He  therefore  sends 
for  me  directly,  with  these  shocking  words,  that  I  will  come 
and  close  his  eyes.  My  servant  or  his  must  of  necessity 
be  in  town  every  day  on  his  case,  or  on  other  affairs;  and 
one  of  them  shall  regularly  attend  you  for  any  letter  or 
commands.  It  will  be  charity  to  write  to  me  as  often  as  you 
can.  For  although  I  am  likely  to  be  a  considerable  gainer 
by  the  poor  man's  death,  yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  at  all  love 
these  scenes  of  death  and  the  doctor  so  near  me.  The 
doctor  and  death  I  should  have  said;  for  that  is  the  natural 
order,  and  generally  speaking,  the  one  is  but  the  harbinger  to 
the  other. 

If,  therefore,  you  decline  to  oblige  me,  I  shall  think  you 
are  displeased  with  my  freedom.  But  let  me  tell  you,  at 
the  same  time,  that  no  man  has  a  right  to  be  displeased 
at  freedoms  taken  with  him  for  faults  he  is  not  ashamed  to 
be  guilty  of. 

J.  Belford. 


32  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

LETTER  XII. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

1   THANK  you  and   Mr.   Hickman  for  his  letter,   sent  me 
with  such  kind  expedition;  and  proceed  to  obey  my  dear 
menacing  tyranness. 
[She   then  gives   the   particulars   of   what   passed  between 

herself  and  Mr.  Lovelace  on  Tuesday  morning,  in  relation 

to  his  four  friends,  and  to  Miss  Partington,  pretty  much 

to  the  same  effect  as  in  Mr.  Lovelace's  letter.  No.  XC. 

And  then  proceeds :] 

He  is  constantly  accusing  me  of  over-scrupulousness.  He 
says,  '  I  am  always  out  of  humour  with  him :  that  I  could 
'  not  have  behaved  more  reservedly  to  Mr.  Solmes :  and 
'  that  it  is  contrary  to  all  his  hopes  and  notions,  that  he 
'  should  not,  in  so  long  a  time,  find  himself  able  to  inspire 
'  the  person,  whom  he  hoped  so  soon  to  have  the  honour 
'  to  call  his,  with  the  least  distinguishing  tenderness  for 
'  him  beforehand.' 

Silly  and  partial  encroacher!  not  to  Ivnow  to  what  to 
attribute  the  reserve  I  am  forced  to  treat  him  with!  But 
his  pride  has  eaten  up  his  prudence.  It  is  indeed  a  dirty 
low  pride,  that  has  swallowed  up  the  true  pride,  which 
should  have  set  him  above  the  vanity  that  has  over-run  him. 

Yet  he  pretends  that  he  has  no  pride  but  in  obliging  me: 
and  is  always  talking  of  his  reverence  and  humility,  and 
such  sort  of  stuff:  but  of  this  I  am  sure  that  he  has,  as  I 
observed  the  first  time  I  saw  him,*  too  much  regard  to  his 
own  person,  greatly  to  value  that  of  his  wife,  marry  he 
whom  he  will:  and  I  must  be  blind  if  I  did  not  see  that 
he  is  exceedingly  vain  of  his  external  advantages,  and  of  that 
address,  which,  if  it  has  any  merit  in  it  to  an  outward  eye, 
is  perhaps  owing  more  to  his  confidence  than  to  anything  else. 

Have  you  not  beheld  the  man,  when  I  was  your  happy 
guest,  as  he  walked  to  his  chariot,  looking  about  him,  as 

•  See  Vol.  I.  Letter  III. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  33 

if  to  observe  what  eyes  his  specious  person  and  air  had 
attracted  ? 

But  indeed  we  had  some  homely  coxcombs  as  proud  as 
if  they  had  persons  to  be  proud  of;  at  the  same  time  that 
it  was  apparent,  that  the  pains  they  took  about  themselves 
but  the  more  exposed  their  defects. 

The  man  who  is  fond  of  being  thought  moi-e  or  better 
than  he  is,  as  I  have  often  observed,  but  provokes  a  scrutiny 
into  his  pretensions;  and  that  generally  produces  contempt. 
For  pride,  as  I  believe  I  have  heretofore  said,  is  an  infallible 
sign  of  weakness;  of  something  wrong  in  the  head  or  heart, 
or  in  both.  He  that  exalts  himself  insults  his  neighbour; 
who  is  provoked  to  question  in  him  even  that  merit,  which, 
were  he  modest,  would  perhaps  be  allowed  to  be  his  due. 

You  will  say  that  I  am  very  grave :  and  so  I  am.  Mr, 
Lovelace  is  extremely  sunk  in  my  opinion  since  Monday 
night:  nor  see  I  before  me  anything  that  can  afford  me  a 
pleasing  hope.  For  what,  with  a  mind  so  unequal  as  his, 
can  be  my  best  hope? 

I  think  I  mentioned  to  you,  in  my  former,  that  my 
clothes  were  brought  me.  You  fluttered  me  so,  that  I  am 
not  sure  I  did.  But  I  know  I  designed  to  mention  that 
they  were.  They  were  brought  me  on  Thursday;  but 
neither  of  my  few  guineas  with  them,  nor  any  of  my  books, 
except  a  Drexelius  on  Eternity,  the  good  old  Practice  of 
Piety,  and  a  Francis  Spira.  My  brother's  wit,  I  suppose. 
He  thinks  he  does  well  to  point  out  death  and  despair  to  me. 
I  wish  for  the  one,  and  every  now  and  then  am  on  the  brink 
of  the  other. 

You  will  the  less  wonder  at  my  being  so  very  solemn, 
when,  added  to  the  above,  and  to  my  uncertain  situation, 
I  tell  you  that  they  have  sent  me  with  these  books  a  letter 
from  my  cousin  IMorden.  It  has  set  my  heart  against  Mr. 
Lovelace.  Against  myself  too.  I  send  it  enclosed.  If  you 
please,  my  dear,  you  may  read  it  here: 


34  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Col.  Morden  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Florence,  April  13. 

I  AM  extremely  concerned  to  hear  of  a  difference  betwixt 
the  rest  of  a  family  so  near  and  dear  to  me,  and  you  still 
dearer  to  me  than  any  of  the  rest. 

My  cousin  James  has  acquainted  me  with  the  offers  you 
have  had,  and  with  your  refusals.  I  wonder  not  at  either. 
Such  charming  promises  at  so  early  an  age  as  when  I  left 
England;  and  those  promises,  as  I  have  often  heard,  so 
greatly  exceeded,  as  well  in  your  person  as  mind;  how  much 
must  you  be  admired !  how  few  must  there  be  worthy  of  you ! 

Your  parents,  the  most  indulgent  in  the  world,  to  a  child 
the  most  deserving,  have  given  way  it  seems  to  your  refusal 
of  several  gentlemen.  They  have  contented  themselves  at 
last  to  name  one  with  earnestness  to  you,  because  of  the 
address  of  another  whom  they  cannot  approve. 

They  had  not  reason,  it  seems,  from  your  behaviour,  to 
think  you  greatly  averse :  so  they  proceeded :  perhaps  too 
hastily  for  a  delicacy  like  yours.  But  when  all  was  fixed 
on  their  parts,  and  most  extraordinary  terms  concluded  in 
your  favour;  terms  which  abundantly  show  the  gentleman's 
just  value  for  you;  you  flew  off  with  a  warmth  and  vehe- 
mence little  suited  to  that  sweetness  which  gave  grace  to 
all  your  actions. 

I  know  very  little  of  either  of  the  gentlemen:  but  of  Mr. 
Lovelace  I  know  more  than  of  Mr.  Solmes.  I  wish  I  could 
say  more  to  his  advantage  than  I  can.  As  to  every  quali- 
fication but  one,  your  brother  owns  there  is  no  comparison. 
But  that  one  outweighs  all  the  rest  together.  It  cannot  be 
thought  that  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  will  dispense  with 
MORALS  in  a  husband. 

What,  my  dearest  cousin,  shall  I  plead  first  to  you  on 
this  occasion?  Your  duty,  your  interest,  your  temporal 
and  your  eternal  welfare,  do,  and  may  all,  depend  upon  this 
single  point,  the  morality  of  a  husband.  A  woman  who 
hath  a  wicked  husband  may  find  it  difficult  to  he  good,  and 
out  of  her  power  to  do  good;  and  is  therefore  in  a  worse 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  35 

situation  than  the  man  can  be  in,  who  hath  a  bad  wife. 
You  preserve  all  your  religious  regards,  I  understand.  I 
wonder  not  that  you  do.  I  should  have  wondered  had  you 
not.  But  what  can  you  promise  yourself,  as  to  perseverance 
in  them,  with  an  immoral  husband? 

If  your  parents  and  you  differ  in  sentiment  on  this  im- 
portant occasion,  let  me  ask  you,  my  dear  cousin,  who  ought 
to  give  away?  I  own  to  you,  that  I  should  have  thought 
there  could  not  anywhere  have  been  a  more  suitable  match 
for  you  than  with  Mr.  Lovelace,  had  he  been  a  moral  man. 
I  should  have  very  little  to  say  against  a  man,  of  whose 
actions  I  am  not  to  set  up  myself  as  a  judge,  did  he  not 
address  my  cousin.  But,  on  this  occasion,  let  me  tell  you, 
my  dear  Clarissa,  that  Mr.  Lovelace  cannot  possibly  deserve 
you.  He  may  reform,  you'll  say:  but  he  may  not.  Habit 
is  not  soon  or  easily  shaken  off.  Libertines,  who  are  liber- 
tines in  defiance  of  talents,  of  superior  lights,  of  conviction, 
hardly  ever  reform  but  by  miracle,  or  by  incapacity.  Well 
do  I  know  mine  own  sex.  Well  am  I  able  to  judge  of  the 
probability  of  the  reformation  of  a  licentious  young  man, 
who  has  not  been  fastened  upon  by  sickness,  by  affliction, 
by  calamity:  who  has  a  prosperous  run  of  fortune  before 
him:  his  spirits  high:  his  will  uncontrollable:  the  company 
he  keeps,  perhaps  such  as  himself,  confirming  him  in  all  his 
courses,  assisting  him  in  all  his  enterprises. 

As  to  the  other  gentleman,  suppose,  my  dear  cousin,  you 
do  not  like  him  at  present,  it  is  far  from  being  unlikely  that 
you  will  hereafter:  perhaps  the  more  for  not  liking  him 
now.  He  can  hardly  sink  lower  in  your  opinion:  he  may 
rise.  Very  seldom  is  it  that  high  expectations  are  so  much 
as  tolerably  answered.  How  indeed  can  they,  when  a  fine 
and  extensive  imagination  carries  its  expectation  infinitely 
beyond  reality,  in  the  highest  of  our  sublunary  enjoyments? 
A  woman  adorned  with  such  an  imagination  sees  no  defect 
in  a  favoured  object  (the  less,  if  she  be  not  conscious  of  any 
wilful  fault  in  herself),  till  it  is  too  late  to  rectify  the  mis- 
takes ocasioned  b}^  her  generous  credulity. 

But  suppose  a  person  of  your  talents  were  to  marry  a  man 
Vol.  IV— 5. 


36  THE   HISTORY    OF 

of  inferior  talents;  who,  in  this  ease,  can  be  so  happy  in 
herself  as  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe?  Wliat  delight  do  you 
take  in  doing  good !  How  happily  do  you  devote  the  several 
portions  of  the  day  to  your  own  improvement,  and  to  the 
advantage  of  all  that  move  within  your  sphere ! — And  then, 
such  is  your  taste,  such  are  your  acquirements  in  the  politer 
studies,  and  in  the  politer  amusements;  such  your  excel- 
lence in  all  the  different  parts  of  economy  fit  for  a  young 
lady's  inspection  and  practice,  that  your  friends  would  wish 
you  to  be  taken  off  as  little  as  possible  by  regards  that  may 
be  called  merely  personal. 

But  as  to  what  may  be  the  consequence  respecting  your- 
self, respecting  a  young  lady  of  your  talents,  from  the  pref- 
erence you  are  suspected  to  give  to  a  libertine,  I  would 
have  you,  my  dear  cousin,  consider  what  they  may  be.  A 
mind  so  pure,  to  mingle  with  a  mind  impure !  And  will 
not  such  a  man  as  this  engross  all  your  solitudes?  Will  he 
not  perpetually  fill  you  with  anxieties  for  him  and  for 
yourself? — The  divine  and  civil  powers  defied,  and  their 
sanctions  broken  through  by  him,  on  every  not  merely  acci- 
dental but  meditated  occasion.  To  be  agreeable  to  him,  and 
to  hope  to  preserve  an  interest  in  his  affections,  you  must 
probably  be  obliged  to  abandon  all  your  own  laudable  pur- 
suits. You  must  enter  into  his  pleasures  and  distastes.  You 
must  give  up  your  own  virtuous  companions  for  his  profli- 
gate ones — perhaps  be  forsaken  by  yours  because  of  the 
scandal  he  daily  gives.  Can  you  hope,  cousin,  with  such  a 
man  as  this,  to  be  long  so  good  as  you  now  are?  If  not, 
consider  which  of  your  present  laudable  delights  you  would 
choose  to  give  up !  which  of  his  culpable  ones  to  follow  him 
in !  How  could  you  brook  to  go  backward,  instead  of  for- 
ward, in  those  duties  which  you  now  so  exemplarily  perform  ? 
and  how  do  you  know,  if  you  once  give  way,  where  you 
shall  be  suffered,  where  you  shall  be  able,  to  stop? 

Your  brother  acknowledges  that  Mr.  Solmes  is  not  near 
so  agreeable  in  person  as  Mr.  Lovelace.  But  what  is  person 
with  such  a  lady  as  I  have  the  honour  to  be  now  writing 
to?     He  owns  likewise  that  he  has  not  the  address  of  Mr. 


CLARISSA   IIARLOWE.  37 

Lovelace:  but  what  a  mere  personal  advantage  is  a  plau- 
sible address  without  morals?  A  woman  had  better  take  a 
husband  whose  manners  she  were  to  fashion,  than  to  find 
them  ready-fashioned  to  her  hand,  at  the  price  of  his  moral- 
ity; a  price  that  is  often  paid  for  travelling  accomplish- 
ments. Oh,  my  dear  cousin,  were  you  but  with  us  here  at 
Florence,  or  at  Eome,  or  at  Paris  (where  also  I  resided  for 
many  months),  to  see  the  gentlemen  whose  supposed  rough 
English  manners  at  setting  out  are  to  be  polished,  and  what 
their  improvements  are  in  their  return  through  the  same 
places,  you  would  infinitely  prefer  the  man  in  his  first  stage 
to  the  same  man  in  his  last.  You  find  the  difference  on 
their  return — a  fondness  for  foreign  fashions,  an  attachment 
to  foreign  vices,  a  supercilious  contempt  of  his  own  country 
and  countrymen  (himself  more  despicable  than  the  most 
despicable  of  those  he  despises)  ;  these,  with  an  unblushing 
effrontery,  are  too  generally  the  attainments  that  concur  to 
finish  the  travelled  gentleman ! 

Mr.  Lovelace,  I  know,  deserves  to  have  an  exception  made 
in  his  favour;  for  he  is  really  a  man  of  parts  and  learning: 
he  was  esteemed  so  both  here  and  at  Rome ;  and .  a  fine 
person,  and  a  generous  turn  of  mind,  gave  him  great  ad- 
vantages. But  you  need  not  be  told,  that  a  libertine  man 
of  sense  does  infinitely  more  mischief  than  a  libertine  of 
weak  par^s  is  able  to  do.  And  this  I  will  tell  you  further, 
that  it  was  Mr.  Lovelace's  own  fault  that  he  was  not  still 
more  respected  than  he  was  among  the  literati  here.  There 
were,  in  short,  some  liberties  in  which  he  indulged  himself, 
that  endangered  his  person  and  his  liberty;  and  made  the 
best  and  most  worthy  of  those  who  honoured  him  with  their 
notice  give  him  up,  and  his  stay  both  at  Florence  and  at 
Eome  shorter  than  he  designed. 

This  is  all  I  choose  to  say  of  Mr.  Lovelace.  I  had  much 
rather  have  had  reason  to  give  him  a  quite  contrary  char- 
acter. But  as  to  rakes  or  libertines  in  general,  I,  who  know 
them  well,  must  be  allowed,  because  of  the  mischiefs  they 
have  always  in  their  hearts,  and  too  often  in  their  power,  to 
do  your  sex,  to  add  still  a  few  more  words  upon  this  topic. 


if  5  :)  >)  4 


38  THE   HISTORY    OF 

A  libertine,  my  dear  cousin,  a  plotting,  an  intriguing 
libertine,  must  be  generally  remorseless — unjust  he  must 
always  be.  The  noble  rule  of  doing  to  others  what  he  would 
have  done  to  himself  is  the  first  rule  he  breaks;  and  every 
day  he  breaks  it,  the  oftener,  the  greater  his  triumph.  He 
has  great  contempt  for  your  sex.  He  believes  no  woman 
chaste,  because  he  is  a  profligate.  Every  woman  who  favours 
him  confirms  him  in  his  wicked  incredulity.  He  is  always 
plotting  to  extend  the  mischiefs  he  delights  in.  If  a  woman 
loves  such  a  man,  how  can  she  bear  the  thought  of  dividing 
her  interest  in  his  affections  with  half  the  town,  and  that 
perhaps  the  dregs  of  it  ?  Then  so  sensual ! — How  will  a  young 
hidy  of  your  delicacy  bear  with  so  sensual  a  man?  a  man 
who  makes  a  jest  of  his  vows?  and  who  perhaps  will  break 
your  spirit  by  the  most  unmanly  insults.  To  be  a  libertine, 
at  setting  out,  all  compunction,  all  humanity,  must  be  over- 
come. To  continue  to  be  a  libertine,  is  to  continue  to  be 
everything  vile  and  inhuman.  Prayers,  tears,  and  the  most 
abject  submission,  are  but  fuel  to  his  pride:  wagering  per- 
haps with  lewd  companions,  and,  not  improbably,  with  lewder 
women,  upon  instances  which  he  boasts  of  to  them  of  your 
patient  sufferings,  and  broken  spirit,  and  bringing  them 
home  to  witness  to  both. 

1  write  what  I  know  has  been. 

I  mention  not  fortunes  squandered,  estates  mortgaged  or 
sold,  and  posterity  robbed — nor  yet  a  multitude  of  other 
evils,  too  gross,  too  shocking,  to  be  mentioned  to  a  person 
of  your  delicacy. 

All  these,  my  dear  cousin,  to  be  shunned,  all  the  evils  I 
have  named  to  be  avoided;  the  power  of  doing  all  the  good 
you  have  been  accustomed  to  do,  preserved,  nay,  increased, 
by  the  separate  provision  that  will  be  made  for  you:  your 
charming  diversions,  and  exemplary  employments,  all  main- 
tained; and  every  good  habit  perpetuated:  and  all  by  one 
sacrifice,  the  fading  pleasure  of  the  eye !  who  would  not 
(since  everything  is  not  to  be  met  with  in  one  man,  who 
would  not),  to  preserve  so  many  essentials,  give  up  so  light, 
so  unpermanent  a  pleasure ! 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  39 

Weigh  all  these  things,  which  I  might  insist  upon  to 
more  advantage,  did  I  think  it  needful  to  one  of  your  pru- 
dence— weigh  them  well,  my  beloved  cousin;  and  if  it  be 
not  the  will  of  your  parents  that  you  should  continue  single, 
resolve  to  oblige  them;  and  let  it  not  be  said  that  the 
powers  of  fancy  shall  (as  in  many  others  of  your  sex)  be 
too  hard  for  your  duty  and  your  prudence.  The  less  agree- 
able the  man,  the  more  obliging  the  compliance.  Eemem- 
ber  that  he  is  a  sober  man — a  man  who  has  reputation  to 
lose,  and  whose  reputation  therefore  is  a  security  for  his 
good  behaviour  to  you. 

You  have  an  opportunity  offered  you  to  give  the  highest 
instance  that  can  be  given  of  filial  duty.  Embrace  it.  It 
is  worthy  of  you.  It  is  expected  from  you;  however,  for 
your  inclination  sake,  we  may  be  sorry  that  you  are  called 
upon  to  give  it.  Let  it  be  said  that  you  have  been  able  to 
lay  an  obligation  upon  your  parents  (a  proud  word,  my 
cousin!)  which  you  could  not  do,  were  it  not  laid  against 
your  inclination ! — upon  parents  who  have  laid  a  thousand 
upon  you:  who  are  set  upon  this  point:  who  will  not  give 
it  up :  who  have  given  up  many  points  to  you,  even  of  this 
very  nature :  and  in  their  turn,  for  the  sake  of  their  own 
authority,  as  well  as  judgment,  expect  to  be  obliged. 

I  hope  I  shall  soon,  in  person,  congratulate  you  upon 
this  your  meritorious  compliance.  To  settle  and  give  up  my 
trusteeship  is  one  of  the  principal  motives  of  my  leaving 
these  parts.  I  shall  be  glad  to  settle  it  to  everyone's  satis- 
faction; to  yours  particularly. 

If  on  my  arrival  I  find  a  happy  union,  as  formerly,  reign 
in  a  family  so  dear  to  me,  it  will  be  an  unspeakable  pleasure 
to  me;  and  I  shall  perhaps  so  dispose  my  affairs,  as  to  be 
near  you  for  ever. 

I  have  written  a  very  long  letter,  and  will  add  no  more, 
than  that  I  am,  with  the  greatest  respect,  my  dearest  cousin, 

Your  most  affectionate  and  faithful  servant, 

Wm.  Morden. 


40  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

I  WILL  suppose,  my  dear  Miss  Howe,  that  you  have  read 
my  cousin's  letter.  It  is  now  in  vain  to  wish  it  had  come 
sooner.  But  if  it  had,  I  might  perhaps  have  been  so  rash 
as  to  give  Mr.  Lovelace  the  fatal  meeting,  as  I  little  thought 
of  going  away  with  him. 

But  I  should  hardly  have  given  him  the  expectation  of 
so  doing,  previous  to  the  meeting,  which  made  him  come 
prepared;  and  the  revocation  of  which  he  so  artfully  made 
ineffectual. 

Persecuted  as  I  was,  and  little  expecting  so  much  conde- 
scension, as  my  aunt,  to  my  great  mortification  has  told 
me  (and  you  confirm)  I  should  have  met  with,  it  is,  how- 
ever, hard  to  say  what  I  should  or  should  not  have  done 
as  to  meeting  Mm,  had  it  come  in  time :  but  this  effect  I 
verily  believe  it  would  have  had — to  have  made  me  insist 
with  all  my  might  on  going  over,  out  of  all  their  ways,  to 
the  kind  writer  of  the  instructive  letter,  and  on  making 
a  father  (a  protector,  as  well  as  a  friend)  as  a  kinsman, 
who  is  one  of  my  trustees.  This,  circumstanced  as  I  was, 
would  have  been  a  natural,  at  least  an  unexceptionable  pro- 
tection ! — But  I  was  to  he  unhappy !  and  how  it  cuts  me  to 
the  heart  to  think  that  I  can  already  subscribe  to  my 
cousin's  character  of  a  libertine,  so  well  drawn  in  the  letter 
which  I  suppose  you  now  to  have  read ! 

That  a  man  of  character  which  ever  was  my  abhorrence 
should  fall  to  my  lot ! — But,  depending  on  my  own  strength ; 
having  no  reason  to  apprehend  danger  from  headstrong  and 
disgraceful  impulses;  I  too  little  perhaps  cast  up  my  eyes  to 
the  Supreme  Director :  in  whom,  mistrusting  myself,  I  ought 
to  have  placed  my  whole  confidence — and  the  more,  when  I 
saw  myself  so  perseveringly  addressed  by  a  man  of  this 
character. 

Inexperience  and  presumption,  with  the  help  of  a  brother 
and  sister  who  have  low  ends  to  answer  in  my  disgrace,  have 
been  my  ruin! — A  hard  word,  my  dear !  but  I  repeat  it  upon 
deliberation:  since,  let  the  best  happen  which  notv  can 
happen,  my  reputation  is  destroyed;  a  rake  is  my  portion: 
and  what  that  portion  is  my  cousin  Morden's  letter  has 
acquainted  you. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  41 

Pray  keep  it  by  you  till  called  for.  I  saw  it  not  myself 
(having  not  the  heart  to  inspect  my  trunks)  till  this  morning. 
I  would  not  for  the  world  this  man  should  see  it;  because 
it  might  occasion  mischief  between  the  most  violent  spirit, 
and  the  most  settled  brave  one  in  the  world,  as  my  cousin's 
is  said  to  be. 

This  letter  was  enclosed  (opened)  in  a  blank  cover.  Scorn 
and  detest  me  as  they  will,  I  wonder  that  one  line  was  not 
sent  with  it — were  it  but  to  have  more  particularly  pointed 
the  design  of  it,  in  the  same  generous  spirit  that  sent  me 
the  spira. 

The  sealing  of  the  cover  was  with  black  wax.  I  hope 
there  is  no  new  occasion  in  the  family  to  give  reason  for 
black  wax.  But  if  there  were,  it  would,  to  be  sure,  have 
been  mentioned,  and  laid  at  my  door — perhaps  too  justly ! 

I  had  begun  a  letter  to  my  cousin;  but  laid  it  by,  because 
of  the  uncertainty  of  my  situation,  and  expecting  every  day 
for  several  days  past  to  be  at  a  greater  certainty.  You  bid 
me  write  to  him  some  time  ago,  you  know.  Then  it  was  I 
began  it:  for  I  have  great  pleasure  in  obeying  you  in  all  I 
may.  So  I  ought  to  have;  for  you  are  the  only  friend  left 
me.  And,  moreover,  you  generally  honour  me  with  your 
own  observance  of  the  advice  I  take  the  liberty  to  offer 
you:  for  I  pretend  to  say  I  give  better  advice  than  I  have 
taken.  And  so  I  had  need.  For  I  know  not  how  it  comes 
about,  but  I  am,  in  my  own  opinion,  a  poor  lost  creature: 
and  yet  cannot  charge  myself  with  one  criminal  or  faulty 
inclination.     Do  you  know,  my  dear,  how  this  can  be? 

Yet  I  can  tell  you  how,  I  believe — one  devious  step  at 
setting  out! — that  must  be  it: — which  pursued,  has  led  me 
so  far  out  of  my  path,  that  I  am  in  a  wilderness  of  doubt 
and  error;  and  never,  never,  shall  find  my  way  out  of  it: 
for,  although  but  one  pace  awry  at  first,  it  has  led  me 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  miles  out  of  my  path:  and  the 
poor  estray  has  not  one  kind  friend,  nor  has  met  with  one 
directing  passenger,  to  help  her  to  recover  it. 

But  I,  presumptuous  creature !  must  rely  so  much  upon 
my  own  knowledge  of  the  right  path! — little  apprehending 


42  THE   HISTORY    OF 

that  an  ignis  fatuus  with  its  false  fires  (and  yet  I  had 
heard  enough  of  such)  would  arise  to  mislead  me!  And 
now,  in  the  midst  of  fens  and  quagmires,  it  plays  around 
me,  and  around  me,  throwing  me  back  again,  whenever  I 
think  myself  in  the  right  track.  But  there  is  one  common 
point,  in  which  all  shall  meet,  err  widely  as  they  may.  In 
that  I  shall  be  laid  quietly  down  at  last:  and  then,  will  all 
my  calamities  be  at  an  end. 

But  how  I  stray  again;  stray  from  my  intention!  I 
would  only  have  said,  that  I  had  begun  a  letter  to  my 
cousin  Morden  some  time  ago :  but  that  now  I  can  never 
end  it.  You  will  believe  I  cannot:  for  how  shall  I  tell 
him  that  all  his  compliments  are  misbestowed?  that  all  his 
advice  is  thrown  away?  all  his  warnings  vain?  and  that 
even  my  highest  expectation  is  to  be  the  wife  of  that  free- 
liver,  whom  he  so  pathetically  warns  me  to  shun? 

Let  me,  however,  have  your  prayers  joined  with  my  own 
(my  fate  depending,  as  it  seems,  upon  the  lips  of  such  a 
man),  'that,  whatever  shall  be  my  destiny,  that  dreadful 
'part  of  my  father's  malediction,  that  I  may  be  punished 
'  by  the  man  in  whom  he  supposes  I  put  my  confidence, 
'may  not  take  place!  that  this  for  Mr.  Lovelace's  own  sake, 
'  and  for  the  sake  of  human  nature,  may  not  be !  or,  if  it 
'  be  necessary,  in  support  of  the  parental  authority,  that  I 
'  should  be  punished  by  him,  that  it  may  not  be  by  his  pre- 
'  meditated  or  wilful  baseness;  but  that  I  may  be  able  to 
'acquit  his  intention,  if  not  his  action!'  Otherwise,  my 
fault  will  appear  to  be  doubled  in  the  eye  of  the  event- 
judging  world.  And  yet,  methinks,  I  would  be  glad  that 
the  unkindness  of  my  father  and  uncles,  whose  hearts  have 
already  been  too  much  wounded  by  my  error,  may  be  justi- 
fied in  every  article,  excepting  in  this  heavy  curse:  and 
that  my  father  will  be  pleased  to  withdraw  that  before  it 
be  generally  known:  at  least  that  most  dreadful  part  of  it 
which  regards  futurity ! 

I  must  lay  down  my  pen.  I  must  brood  over  these  re- 
flections. Once  more,  before  I  close  my  cousin's  letter,  I 
will  peruse  it.     And  then  I  shall  have  it  by  heart. 


CLARISS^A    HARLOWE.  43 


LETTER  XIII. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Sunday  Night,  May  7. 

When  you  reflect  upon  my  unhappy  situation,  which  is 
attended  with  so  many  indelicate  and  even  shocking  cir- 
cumstances, some  of  which  my  pride  will  not  let  me  think 
of  with  patience;  all  aggravated  by  the  contents  of  my 
cousin's  affecting  letter;  you  will  not  wonder  that  the 
vapourishness  which  has  laid  hold  of  my  heart  should  rise 
to  my  pen.  And  yet  it  would  be  more  kind,  more  friendly 
in  me,  to  conceal  from  yoUj  who  take  such  a  generous 
interest  in  my  concerns,  that  worst  part  of  my  griefs,  which 
communication  and   complaint   cannot   relieve. 

But  to  whom  can  I  unbosom  myself  but  to  you:  when 
the  man  who  ought  to  be  my  protector,  as  he  has  brought 
upon  me  all  my  distresses,  adds  to  my  apprehensions;  when 
I  have  not  even  a  servant  on  whose  fidelity  I  can  rely,  or 
to  whom  I  can  break  my  griefs  as  they  arise;  and  when 
his  bountiful  temper  and  gay  heart  attach  every  one  to 
him;  and  I  am  but  a  cipher,  to  give  Mm  significance,  and 
myself  pain? — These  griefs,  therefore,  do  what  I  can,  will 
sometimes  burst  into  tears;  and  these  mingling  with  my 
ink,  will  blot  my  paper.  And  I  know  you  will  not  grudge 
me  the  temporary  relief. 

But  I  shall  go  on  in  the  strain  I  left  off  with  in  my  last 
when  I  intended  rather  to  apologise  for  my  melancholy. 
But  let  what  I  have  above  written,  once  for  all,  be  my 
apology.  My  misfortunes  have  given  you  a  call  to  dis- 
charge the  noblest  offices  of  the  friendship  we  have  vowed 
to  each  other,  in  advice  and  consolation;  and  it  would  be 
an  injury  to  it,  and  to  you,  to  suppose  it  needed  even  that 
call. 

[She  then  tells  Miss  Howe  that  now  her  clothes  are  come, 
Mr.  Lovelace  is  continually  teasing  her  to  go  abroad  with 


44  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

him  in  a  coach,  attended  by  whom  she  pleases  of  her  own 
sex,  either  for  the  air,  or  to  the  public  diversions. 
She  gives  the  particulars  of  a  conversation  that  has  passed 
between  them  on  that  subject,  and  his  several  proposals. 
But  takes  notice  that  he  says  not  the  least  word  of  the 
solemnity  which  he  so  much  pressed  for  before  they  came 
to  town;  and  which,  as  she  observes,  was  necessary  to 
give  propriety  to  his  proposals.] 

!N"ow,  my  dear,  says  she,  I  cannot  bear  the  life  I  live. 
I  would  be  glad  at  my  heart  to  be  out  of  his  reach.  If  I 
were,  he  should  soon  find  the  difference.  If  I  must  be 
humbled,  it  had  better  be  by  those  to  whom  I  owe  duty, 
than  by  him.  My  aunt  writes  in  iier  letter,*  that  she  dare 
not  propose  anything  in  my  favour.  You  tell  me,  that, 
upon  inquiry,  you  find  f  that  had  I  not  been  unhappily 
seduced  away,  a  change  of  measures  was  actually  resolved 
upon;  and  that  my  mother,  particularly,  was  determined  to 
exert  herself  for  the  restoration  of  the  family  peace;  and, 
in  order  to  succeed  the  better,  had  thoughts  of  trying  to 
engage  my  uncle  Harlowe  in  her  party. 

Let  me  build  on  these  foundations.  I  can  but  try,  my 
dear.  It  is  my  duty  to  try  all  probable  methods  to  restore 
the  poor  outcast  to  favour.  And  who  knows  but  that  once 
indulgent  uncle,  who  has  very  great  weight  in  the  family,  may 
be  induced  to  interpose  in  my  behalf?  I  will  give  up  all 
right  and  title  to  my  grandfather's  devises  and  bequests, 
with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  to  whom  they  please,  in  order 
to  make  my  proposal  palatable  to  my  brother.  And  that 
my  surrender  may  be  effectual,  I  will  engage  never  to  marry. 

What  think  you,  my  dear,  of  this  expedient?  Surely, 
they  cannot  resolve  to  renounce  me  for  ever.  If  they  look 
with  impartial  eyes  upon  what  has  happened,  they  will  have 
sonK'iliing  to  blame  themselves  for  as  well  as  me. 

I  presume  that  you  will  be  of  opinion  that  this  expedient 
is  worth  trying.  But  here  is  my  difficulty:  If  I  should 
write,  my  hard-hearted  brother  has  so  strongly  confederated 

•  See  Letter  L.,  Vol.  III.  t  Ibid.,  Letter  VL 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  45 

them  all  against  me,  that  my  letter  would  be  handed  about 
from  one  to  another,  till  he  had  hardened  everyone  to  refuse 
my  request;  whereas  could  my  uncle  be  engaged  to  espouse 
my  cause,  as  from  himself,  I  should  have  some  hope,  as  I 
presume  to  think  he  would  soon  have  my  mother  and  my 
aunt  of  his  party. 

What,  therefore,  I  am  thinking  of,  is  this — '  Suppose 
*  Mr.  Hickman,  whose  good  character  has  gained  him  every- 
'  body's  respect,  should  put  himself  in  my  uncle  Harlowe's 
'way?  And  (as  if  from  your  knowledge  of  the  state  of 
'  things  between  Mr.  Lovelace  and  me)  assure  him  not  only 
'  of  the  above  particulars,  but  that  I  am  under  no  obliga- 
'  tions   that  shall  hinder  me   from  taking   his   directions  ? ' 

I  submit  the  whole  to  your  consideration,  whether  to 
pursue  it  at  all,  or  in  what  manner.  But  if  it  he  pursued, 
and  if  my  uncle  refuse  to  interest  himself  in  my  favour 
upon  Mr.  Hickman's  application  as  from  you  (for  so,  for 
obvious  reasons,  it  must  be  put),  I  can  then  have  no  hope; 
and  my  next  step,  in  the  mind  I  am  in,  shall  be  to  throw 
myself  into  the  protection  of  the  ladies  of  his  family. 

It  were  an  impiety  to  adopt  the  following  lines,  because 
it  would  be  throwing  upon  the  decrees  of  Providence  a  fault 
too  much  my  own.  But  often  do  I  revolve  them,  for  the 
sake  of  the  general  similitude  which  they  bear  to  my  un- 
happy, yet  undesigned  error. 

To  you,  great  gods!    I  make  my  last  appeal: 

Or  clear  my  virtues,  or  my  crimes  reveal. 

If  wandering  in  the  maze  of  life  I  run, 

And  backward  tread  the  steps  I  sought  to  shun, 

Impute  my  error  to  your  own  decree: 

My  FEET  are  guilty:  but  my  heart  is  free. 

[The  lady  dates  again  on  Monday,  to  let  Miss  Howe  know 
that  Mr.  Lovelace,  on  observing  her  uneasiness,  had  in- 
troduced to  her  Mr.  Mennell,  Mrs.  Fretchville's  kinsman, 
who  managed  all  her  affairs.  She  calls  him  a  young 
officer  of  sense  and  politeness,  who  gave  her  an  account 
of  the  house  and  furniture,  to  the  same  effect  that  Mr. 


46  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

Lovelace  had  done  before;*  as  also  of  the  melancholy 
way  Mrs.  Fretchville  is  in. 
She  tells  Miss  Howe  how  extremely  urgent  Mr.  Lovelace 
was  with  the  gentleman,  to  get  his  spouse  (as  he  now 
always  calls  her  before  company)  a  sight  of  the  house: 
and  that  Mr.  Mennell  undertook  that  very  afternoon  to 
show  her  all  of  it,  except  the  apartment  Mrs.  Fretchville 
should  be  in  when  she  went.  But  that  she  chose  not  to 
take  another  step  till  she  knew  how  she  approved  of  her 
scheme  to  have  her  uncle  sounded,  and  with  what  success, 
if  tried,  it  would  be  attended. 
Mr.  Lovelace,  in  his  humourous  way,  gives  his  friend  an 
account  of  the  lady's  peevishness  and  dejection,  on  receiv- 
ing a  letter  with  her  clothes.  He  regrets  that  he  has  lost 
her  confidence;  which  he  attributes  to  his  bringing  her 
into  the  company  of  his  four  companions.  Yet  he  thinks 
he  must  excuse  them,  and  censure  her  for  over-niceness; 
for  that  he  never  saw  men  behave  better,  at  least  not 
them. 
Mentioning  his  introducing  Mr.  Mennel  to  her,] 

Now,  Jack,  says  lie,  was  it  not  very  kind  of  Mr.  Mennell 
{^Captain  Mennell  I  sometimes  called  him;  for  among  the 
military  men  there  is  no  such  officer,  thou  knowest,  as  a 
lieutenant,  or  an  ensign — was  it  not  very  kind  in  him]  to 
come  along  with  me  so  readily  as  he  did,  to  satisfy  my 
beloved  about  the  vapourish  lady  in  the  house? 

But  who  is  Captain  Mennell?  methinks  thou  askest:  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  man  as  Captain  Mennell. 

Very   likely.      But   knowest   thou   not  young   Newcomb, 
honest  Doleman's  nephew? 
0  ho !     Is  it  he  ? 

It  is.  And  I  have  changed  his  name  by  virtue  of  my 
own  single  authority.  Knowest  thou  not,  that  I  am  a  great 
name-father?  Preferment  I  bestow,  both  military  and  civil. 
I  give  estates,  and  take  them  away  at  my  pleasure.  Quality 
too  I  create.  And  by  a  still  more  valuable  prerogative,  I 
degrade  by  virtue  of  my  own  imperial  will,  without  any 
*  See  Letter  LXIV,,  Vol.  III. 


CLARISSA    EAELOWE.  47 

other  net  of  forfeiture  than  for  my  own  convenience.  What 
a  poor  thing  is  a  monarch  to  me ! 

But  Mennell,  now  he  has  seen  this  angel  of  a  woman, 
has  qualms ;  that's  the  devil ! — I  shall  have  enough  to  do 
to  keep  him  right.  But  it  is  the  less  wonder  that  he  should 
stagger,  when  a  few  hours'  conversation  with  the  same  lady 
could  make  four  much  more  hardened  varlets  find  hearts — 
only  that  I  am  confident  that  I  shall  at  least  reward  her 
virtue,  if  her  virtue  overcome  me,  or  I  should  find  it  im- 
possible to  persevere — for  at  times  I  have  confounded  qualms 
myself.  But  say  not  a  word  of  them  to  the  confraternity: 
nor  laugh  at  me  for  them  myself. 

In  another  letter,  dated  Monday  tiight,  he  writes  as  follows: 

This  perverse  lady  keeps  me  at  such  a  distance,  that  I  am 
sure  something  is  going  on  between  her  and  Miss  Howe, 
notwithstanding  the  prohibition  from  Mrs.  Howe  to  both : 
and  as  I  have  thought  it  some  degree  of  merit  in  myself  to 
punish  others  for  their  transgressions,  I  am  of  opinion  that 
both  these  girls  are  punishable  for  their  breach  of  parental 
injunctions.  And  as  to  their  letter-carrier,  I  have  been 
inquiring  into  his  way  of  living;  and  finding  him  to  be  a 
common  poacher,  a  deer  stealer,  and  warren  robber,  who, 
under  pretence  of  higgling,  deals  with  a  set  of  customers, 
who  constantly  take  all  he  brings,  whether  fish,  fowl,  or 
venison,  I  hold  myself  justified  (since  Wilson's  conveyance 
must  at  present  be  sacred)  to  have  him  stripped  and  robbed, 
and  what  money  he  has  about  him  given  to  the  poor;  since, 
if  I  take  not  money  as  well  as  letters,  I  shall  be  suspected. 

To  serve  one's  self,  and  punish  a  villain  at  the  same  time, 
is  serving  public  and  private.  The  law  was  not  made  for 
such  a  man  as  me.  And  I  must  come  at  correspondences 
so  disobediently  carried  on. 

But  on  second  thoughts,  if  I  could  find  out  that  the 
dear  creature  carried  any  of  her  letters  in  her  pockets,  I 
can  get  her  to  a  play  or  to  a  concert,  and  she  may  have 
the  misfortune  to  lose  her  pockets. 

But  how  shall  I  find  this  out;  since  her  Dorcas  knows 
no  more  of  her  dressing  or  undressing  than  her  Lovelace? 


48  TEIE   HISTORY    OF 

For  she  is  dressed  for  the  day  before  she  appears  even  to  her 
servant.  Vilely  suspicious !  Upon  my  soul^  Jack,  a  sus- 
picious temper  is  a  punishable  temper.  If  a  woman  suspects 
a  rogue  in  an  honest  man,  is  it  not  enough  to  make  the 
honest  man  who  knows  it  a  rogue? 

But  as  to  her  pockets,  I  think  my  mind  hankers  after 
them,  as  the  less  mischievous  attempt.  But  they  cannot 
hold  all  the  letters  that  I  should  wish  to  see.  And  yet  a 
woman's  pockets  are  half  as  deep  as  she  is  high.  Tied  round 
the  sweet  levities,  I  presume,  as  ballast-bags,  lest  the  wind, 
as  they  move  with  full  sail,  from  whale-ribbed  canvas,  should 
blow  away  the  gypsies. 

[He  then,  in  apprehension  that  something  is  meditating 
between  the  two  ladies,  or  that  something  may  be  set  on 
foot  to  get  Miss  Harlowe  out  of  his  hands,  relates  several 
of  his  contrivances,  and  boasts  of  his  instructions  given 
in  writing  to  Dorcas,  and  to  his  servant  Will.  Summers; 
and  says  that  he  has  provided  against  every  possible 
accident,  even  to  hring  her  hack  if  she  should  escape,  or 
in  case  she  should  go  abroad,  and  then  refuse  to  return; 
and  hopes  so  to  manage,  as  that,  should  he  make  an 
attempt,  whether  he  succeeded  in  it  or  not,  he  may  have 
a  pretence  to  detain  her.] 

He  then  proceeds  as  follows: 

I  have  ordered  Dorcas  to  cultivate  by  all  means  her  lady's 
favour;  to  lament  her  incapacity  as  to  writing  and  reading; 
to  show  letters  to  her  lady,  as  from  pretended  country 
relations;  to  beg  her  advice  how  to  answer  them,  and  to  get 
them  answered;  and  to  be  always  aiming  at  scrawling  with 
a  pen,  lest  inky  fingers  should  give  suspicion.  I  have  more- 
over given  the  wench  an  ivory-leafed  pocket-book,  with  a 
silver  pencil,  that  she  may  make  memoranda  on  occasion. 

And  let  me  tell  thee  that  the  lady  has  already  (at  Mrs, 
Sinclair's  motion)  removed  her  clothes  out  of  the  trunks 
they  came  in,  into  an  ample  mahogany  repository,  where 
they  will  lie  at  full  length,  and  which  has  drawers  in  it  for 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  49 

linen.  A  repository,  that  used  to  hold  the  richest  suits 
which  some  of  the  nymphs  put  on,  when  they  are  to  be 
dressed  out,  to  captivate,  or  to  ape  quality.  For  many  a 
countess,  thou  knowest,  has  our  mother  equipped;  nay,  two 
or  three  duchesses,  who  live  upon  quality-terms  with  their 
lords.  But  this  to  such  as  will  come  up  to  her  price,  and 
can  make  an  appearance  like  quality  themselves  on  the  oc- 
casion: for  the  reputation  of  persons  of  birth  must  not 
lie  at  the  mercy  of  every  under-degreed  sinner. 

A  master-key,  which  will  open  every  lock  in  this  chest, 
is  put  into  Dorcas's  hands;  and  she  is  to  take  care,  when 
she  searches  for  papers,  before  she  removes  anything,  to 
observe  how  it  lies,  that  she  may  replace  all  to  a  hair.  Sally 
and  Polly  can  occasionally  help  to  transcribe.  Slow  and 
sure  with  such  an  Argus-eyed  charmer  must  be  all  my 
movements. 

It  is  impossible  that  one  so  young  and  so  inexperienced 
as  she  is  can  have  all  her  caution  from  herself;  the  beha- 
viour of  the  women  so  unexceptionable;  no  revellings,  no 
company  ever  admitted  into  this  inner-house;  all  genteel, 
quiet,  and  easy  in  it;  the  nymphs  well-bred,  and  well-read; 
her  first  disgusts  to  the  old  one  got  over. — It  must  be  Miss 
Howe,  therefore  [who  once  was  in  danger  of  being  taken 
in  by  one  of  our  class,  by  honest  Sir  George  Colmar,  as 
thou  hast  heard],  that  makes  my  progress  difficult. 

Thou  seest,  Belford,  by  the  above  precautionaries,  that  I 
forget  nothing.     As  the  song  says,  it  is  not  to  be  imagined 

On  what  slight  strings 

Depend  those  things 

On  which  men  build  their  glory! 

So  far,  so  good.  I  shall  never  rest  till  I  have  discovered, 
in  the  first  place,  where  the  dear  creature  puts  her  letters; 
and  in  the  next  till  I  have  got  her  to  a  play,  to  a  concert, 
or  to  take  an  airing  with  me  out  of  town  for  a  day  or  two. 

I  GAVE  thee  just  now  some  of  my  contrivances.  Dorcas, 
who  is  ever  attentive  to  all  her  lady's  motions,  has  given 


50  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

me  some  instances  of  her  mistress's  precautions.  She  wafers 
lier  letters,  it  seems,  in  two  places;  pricks  the  wafers;  and 
then  seals  upon  them.  No  doubt  but  the  same  care  is  taken 
with  regard  to  those  brought  to  her,  for  she  always  examines 
the  seals  of  the  latter  before  she  opens  them. 

I  must,  I  must  come  at  them.  This  difficulty  augments 
my  curiosity.  Strange,  so  much  as  she  writes,  and  at  all 
hours,  that  not  one  sleepy  or  forgetful  moment  has  offered 
in  our  favour! 

A  fair  contention,  thou  seest :  nor  plead  thou  in  her  favour 
her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  family,  her  fortune,  credulity, 
she  has  none;  and  with  regard  to  her  tender  years,  am  I 
not  a  young  felloiv  myself?  As  to  beauty;  pr'}i:hee,  Jack, 
do  thou,  to  spare  my  modesty,  make  a  comparison  between 
my  Clarissa  for  a  luoman,  and  thy  Lovelace  for  a  man.  For 
her  family;  that  was  not  known  to  its  country  a  century 
ago:  and  I  hate  them  all  but  her.  Have  I  not  cause? — 
For  her  fortune  ;  fortune,  thou  knowest,  was  ever  a  stimulus 
with  me;  and  this  for  reasons  not  ignoble.  Do  not  girls 
of  fortune  adorn  themselves  on  purpose  to  engage  our  atten- 
tion? Seek  they  not  to  draw  us  into  their  snares?  Depend 
they  not,  generally,  on  their  fortunes,  in  the  views  they  have 
upon  us,  more  than  on  their  merits?  Shall  we  deprive  them 
of  the  benefit  of  their  principal  dependence?  Can  I,  in 
particular,  marry  every  girl  who  wishes  to  obtain  my  notice  ? 
If,  therefore,  in  support  of  the  libertine  principles  for  which 
none  of  the  sweet  rogues  hate  us,  a  woman  of  fortune  is 
brought  to  yield  homage  to  her  emperor,  and  any  conse- 
quences attend  the  subjugation,  is  not  such  a  one  shielded 
by  her  fortune,  as  well  from  insult  and  contempt,  as  from 
indigence — all.  then,  that  admits  of  debate  between  my 
beloved  and  me  is  only  this — which  of  the  two  has  more 
wit,  more  circumspection — and  that  remains  to  be  tried. 

A  sad  life,  however,  this  life  of  doubt  and  suspense,  for 
the  poor  lady  to  live,  as  well  as  for  me;  that  is  to  say,  if 
she  be  not  naturally  jealous — if  she  be,  her  uneasiness  is 
constitutional,  and  she  cannot  help  it;  nor  will  it,  in  that 
case,  hurt  her.    For  a  suspicious  temper  will  mahe  occasions 


CLARI88A    HARLOWE.  51 

for  doubt,  if  none  were  to  offer  to  its  hand.  My  fair  one 
therefore,  if  naturally  suspicious,  is  obliged  to  me  for  saving 
her  the  trouble  of  studying  for  these  occasions — but,  after 
all,  the  plainest  paths  in  our  journeys  through  life  are  the 
safest  and  best  I  believe,  although  it  is  not  given  me  to 
choose  them;  I  am  not,  however,  singular  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  more  intricate  paths;  since  there  are  thousands,  and 
ten  thousands,  who  had  rather  fish  in  troubled  waters  than 
in  smooth. 


LETTEE  XIV. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  May.  9. 

I  AM  a  very  unhappy  man.  This  lady  is  said  to  be  one  of 
the  sweetest-tempered  creatures  in  the  world:  and  so  I 
thought  her.  But  to  me  she  is  one  of  the  most  perverse. 
I  never  was  supposed  to  be  an  ill-natured  mortal  neither. 
How  can  it  be?  I  imagined,  for  a  long  while,  that  we  were 
born  to  make  each  other  happy:  but  quite  the  contrary; 
we  really  seem  to  be  sent  to  plague  each  other, 

I  will  write  a  comedy,  I  think :  I  have  a  title  ready ;  and 
that's  half  the  work.  The  Quarrelsome  Lovers.  'Twill  do. 
There's  something  new  and  striking  in  it.  Yet,  more  or 
less,  all  lovers  quarrel.  Old  Terence  has  taken  notice  of 
that;  and  observes  upon  it,  that  lovers  falling  out  occasions 
lovers  falling  in;  and  a  better  understanding  of  course.  'Tis 
natural  that  it  should  be  so.  But  with  us,  we  fall  out  so 
often,  without  falling  in  once;  and  a  second  quarrel  so 
generally  happens  before  a  first  is  made  up;  that  it  is  hard 
to  guess  what  event  our  loves  will  be  attended  with.  But 
perseverance  is  my  glory,  and  patience  my  handmaid,  when 
I  have  in  view  an  object  worthy  of  my  attempts.  What  is 
there  in  an  easy  conquest?     Hudibras  questions  well. 

Vol.  IV— 6. 


53  THE   HISTORY    OF 

What  mad  lover  ever  died 

To  gain  a  soft  and  easy  bride? 

Or,  for  a  lady  tender-hearted, 

In   purling   streams,    or   hemp,   departed? 

But  I  will  lead  to  the  occasion  of  this  preamble. 

I  had  been  out.  On  my  return,  meeting  Dorcas  on  the 
stairs — Your  lady  in  her  chamber,  Dorcas?  In  the  dining- 
room,  sir:  and  if  ever  you  hope  for  an  opportunity  to  come 
at  a  letter,  it  must  be  now.  For  at  her  feet  I  saw  one  lie, 
which,  as  may  be  seen  by  its  open  fold,  she  has  been  read- 
ing, with  a  little  parcel  of  others  she  is  now  busied  with — 
all  pulled  out  of  her  pocket,  as  I  believe :  so,  sir,  you'll  know 
where  to  find  them  another  time. 

I  was  ready  to  leap  for  joy,  and  instantly  resolved  to 
bring  forward  an  expedient  which  1  had  held  in  petto;  and 
entering  into  the  dining-room  with  an  air  of  transport,  I 
boldly  clasped  my  arms  about  her,  as  she  sat;  she  huddling 
up  her  papers  in  her  handkerchief  all  the  time;  the  dropped 
paper  unseen.  Oh,  my  dearest  life,  a  lucky  expedient  have 
Mr.  Mennell  and  1  hit  upon  just  now.  In  order  to  hasten 
Mrs.  Fretchville  to  quit  the  house,  I  have  agreed,  if  you 
approve  of  it,  to  entertain  her  cook,  her  housemaid,  and  two 
men-servants  (about  whom  she  was  very  solicitous),  till  you 
are  provided  to  your  mind.  And  that  no  accommodations 
may  be  wanted,  I  have  consented  to  take  the  household 
linen  at  an   appraisement. 

I  am  to  pay  down  five  hundred  pounds,  and  the  remainder 
as  soon  as  the  bills  can  be  looked  up,  and  the  amount  of 
them  adjusted.  Thus  will  you  have  a  charming  house  en- 
tirely ready  to  receive  you.  Some  of  the  ladies  of  my 
family  will  soon  be  with  you:  they  will  not  permit  you  long 
to  suspend  my  happy  day.  And  that  nothing  may  be  want- 
ing to  gratify  your  utmost  punctilio,  I  will  till  then  consent 
to  stay  here  at  Mrs.  Sinclair's,  while  you  reside  at  j^our  new 
house;  and  leave  the  rest  to  your  own  generosity.  Oh,  my 
beloved  creature,  will  not  this  be  agreeable  to  you?  I  am 
sure  it  will — it  must — and  clasping  her  closer  to  me,  I 
gave  her  a  more  fervent  kiss  than  ever  I  liad  dared  to  give  her 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  53 

before.  I  permitted  not  my  ardour  to  overcome  my  discre- 
tion, however;  for  I  took  care  to  set  my  foot  upon  the  letter, 
and  scraped  it  farther  from  her,  as  it  were  behind  her 
chair. 

She  was  in  a  passion  at  the  liberty  I  took.  Bowing  low, 
I  begged  her  pardon;  and  stooping  still  lower,  in  the  same 
motion  took  up  the  letter,  and  whipt  it  into  my  bosom. 

Pox  on  me  for  a  puppy,  a  fool,  a  blockhead,  a  clumsy 
varlet,  a  mere  Jack  Belf ord ! — I  thought  myself  a  much 
cleverer  fellow  than  I  am ! — Why  could  I  not  have  been 
followed  in  by  Dorcas,  who  might  have  taken  it  up  while 
I  addressed  her  lady? 

For  here,  the  letter  being  unfolded,  I  could  not  put  it  in 
my  bosom  without  alarming  her  ears,  as  my  sudden  motion 
did  her  eyes. — Up  she  flew  in  a  moment :  Traitor !  Judas  ! 
her  eyes  flashing  lightning,  and  a  perturbation  in  her  eager 
countenance,  so  charming! — What  have  you  taken  up? — 
and  then,  what  for  both  my  ears  I  durst  not  have  done  to 
her,  she  made  no  scruple  to  seize  the  stolen  letter,  though  in 
my  bosom. 

What  was  to  be  done  on  so  palpable  a  detection  ? — I  clasped 
her  hand,  which  had  hold  of  the  ravished  paper,  between 
mine:  Oh,  my  beloved  creature!  said  I,  can  you  think  I 
have  not  some  curiosity?  Is  it  possible  you  can  be  thus  for 
ever  employed;  and  I,  loving  narrative  letter-writing  above 
every  other  species  of  writing,  and  admiring  your  talent 
that  way,  should  not  (thus  upon  the  dawn  of  my  happiness, 
as  I  presume  to  hope)  burn  with  a  desire  to  be  admitted 
into  so  sweet  a  correspondence? 

Let  go  my  hand! — stamping  with  her  pretty  foot:  How 
dare  you,  sir! — At  this  rate,  I  see — too  plainly  I  see — and 
more  she  could  not  say:  but,  gasping,  was  ready  to  faint 
with  passion  and  affright;  the  devil  a  bit  of  her  accustomed 
gentleness  to  be  seen  in  her  charming  face,  or  to  be  heard 
in  her  musical  voice. 

Having  gone  thus  far,  loth,  very  loth  was  I  to  lose  my 
prize — once  more  I  got  hold  of  the  rumpled-up  letter! — 
Tm,pudent  man!  were  her  words:  stamping  again.    For  God's 


54  THE   HISTORY    OF 

salce,  then  it  was.  I  let  go  my  prize,  lest  she  should  faint 
away:  but  had  the  pleasure  first  to  find  my  hand  within 
both  hers,  she  trying  to  open  my  reluctant  fingers.  How 
near  was  my  heart  at  that  moment  to  my  hand,  throbbing 
to  my  fingers'  ends,  to  be  thus  familiarly,  although  angrily, 
treated  by  the  charmer  of  my  soul ! 

When  she  had  got  it  in  her  possession,  she  flew  to  the 
door.  I  threw  myself  in  her  way,  shut  it,  and  in  the 
humblest  manner  besought  her  to  forgive  me.  And  yet  do 
you  think  the  Harlowe-hearted  charmer  (notwithstanding  the 
agreeable  annunciation  I  came  in  with)  would  forgive  me? 
— No,  truly;  but  pushing  me  rudely  from  the  door,  as  if 
T  had  been  nothing  [yet  do  I  love  to  try,  so  innocently  to 
try,  her  strength  too!],  she  gained  that  force  through  pas- 
sion, which  I  had  lost  through  fear,  out  she  shot  to  her 
own  apartment  [thank  my  stars  she  could  fly  no  farther !]  ; 
and  as  soon  as  she  entered  it,  in  a  passion  still,  she  double- 
locked  and  double-bolted  herself  in.  This  my  comfort,  on 
reflection,  that  upon  a  greater  offence,  it  cannot  be 
worse. 

I  retreated  to  my  own  apartment,  with  my  heart  full: 
and  my  man  Will  not  being  near  me,  gave  myself  a  plaguy 
knock  on  the  forehead  with  my  double  fists. 

And  now  is  my  charmer  shut  up  from  me:  refusing  to 
see  me,  refusing  her  meals.  She  resolves  not  to  see  me; 
that's  more: — never  again,  if  she  can  help  it;  and  in  the 
mind  she  is  in — I  hope  she  has  said. 

The  dear  creatures,  whenever  they  quarrel  with  their 
humble  servants,  should  always  remember  this  saving  clause, 
that  they  may  not  be  forsworn. 

But  thinkest  thou  that  I  will  not  make  it  the  subject  of 
one  of  my  first  plots  to  inform  myself  of  the  reason  why  all 
this  commotion  was  necessary  on  so  slight  an  occasion  as 
this  would  have  been,  were  not  the  letters  that  pass  between 
these  ladies  of  a  treasonable  nature? 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  55 


Wednesday  Morning. 

No  admission  to  breakfast,  any  more  than  to  supper.     I 
wish  this  lad}'  is  not  a  simpleton  after  all. 

I  have  sent  up  in  Captain  Mennell's  name. 

A  message   from   Captain   Mennell,   Madam. 

It  won't  do.  She  is  of  baby  age.  She  cannot  be — a 
Solomon,  I  was  going  to  say,  in  everything.  Solomon, 
Jack,  was  the  wisest  man.  But  didst  ever  hear  who  was 
the  wisest  woman?  I  want  a  comparison  for  this  lady. 
Cunning  women  and  witches  we  read  of  without  number. 
But  I  fancy  wisdom  never  entered  into  the  character  of  a 
woman.  It  is  not  a  requisite  of  the  sex.  Women  indeed 
make  better  sovereigns  than  men :  but  why  is  that  ? — because 
the  women  sovereigns  are  governed  by  men;  the  men  sov- 
ereigns by  women. — Charming,  by  my  soul!  For  hence  we 
guess  at  the  rudder  by  which  both  are  steered. 

But  to  putting  wisdom  out  of  the  question,  and  to  take 
cunning  in;  that  is  to  say,  to  consider  woman  as  a  woman; 
what  shall  we  do,  if  this  lady  has  something  extraordinary 
in  her  head?  Eepeated  charges  has  she  given  to  Wilson, 
by  a  particular  messenger,  to  send  any  letter  directed  for 
her  the  moment  it  comes. 

I  must  keep  a  good  look-out.  She  is  not  now  afraid  of 
her  brother's  plot.  I  shan't  be  at  all  surprised  if  Singleton 
calls  upon  Miss  Howe,  as  the  only  person  who  Icnoivs,  or  is 
likely  to  know,  where  Miss  Harlowe  is;  pretending  to  have 
affairs  of  importance,  and  of  particular  service  to  her,  if  he 
can  but  be  admitted  to  her  speech — Of  compromise,  who 
knows,  from  her  brother? 

Then  will  Miss  Howe  warn  her  to  keep  close.  Then  will 
my  protection  be  again  necessary.  This  Avill  do,  I  believe. 
Anything  from  Miss  Howe  must. 

Joseph  Leman  is  a  vile  fellow  with  her,  and  my  implement. 
Joseph,  honest  Joseph,  as  I  call  him,  may  hang  himself.  I 
have  played  him  off  enough,  and  have  very  little  furtlier  use 
for  him.  ISTo  need  to  wear  one  plot  to  the  stumps,  when  I 
can  find  new  ones  every  hour. 


66  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Nor  blame  me  for  the  use  I  make  of  my  talents.  Who 
that  hath  such,  will  let  'em  be  idle  ? 

Well  then  I  will  find  a  Singleton;  that's  all  I  have  to  do. 

Instantly  find   one! — Will! 

Sir— 

This  moment  call  me  hither  thy  cousin  Paul  Wheatly, 
just  come  from  sea,  whom  thou  wert  recommending  to  my 
service,  if  I  were  to  marry  and  keep  a  pleasure-boat. 

Presto — Will's  gone — Paul  will  be  here  presently.  Pres- 
ently to  Mrs.  Howe's.  If  Paul  be  Singleton's  mate,  coming 
from  his  captain,  it  will  do  as  well  as  if  it  were  Singleton 
himself. 

Sally,  a  little  devil,  often  reproaches  me  with  the  slowness 
of  my  proceedings.  But  in  a  play  does  not  the  principal 
entertainment  lie  in  the  first  four  acts?  Is  not  all  in  a 
manner  over  when  you  come  to  the  fifth?  And  what  a 
vulture  of  a  man  must  he  be,  who  souses  upon  his  prey,  and 
in  the  same  moment  trusses  and  devours? 

But  to  own  the  truth.  I  have  overplotted  myself.  To 
make  my  work  secure,  as  I  thought,  I  have  frighted  the 
dear  creature  with  the  sight  of  my  four  Hottentots,  and  I 
shall  be  a  long  time,  I  doubt,  before  I  can  recover  my  lost 
ground.  And  then  this  cursed  family  at  Harlowe  Place 
have  made  her  out  of  humour  with  me,  with  herself,  and 
with  all  the  world,  but  Miss  Howe,  who  no  dou])t  is  con- 
tinually adding  difficulties  to  my  other  difficulties. 

I  am  very  unwilling  to  have  recourse  to  measures  which 
these  demons  below  are  continually  urging  me  to  take;  be- 
cause I  am  sure  that  at  last  I  shall  be  brought  to  make  her 
legally  mine. 

One  complete  trial  over,  and  I  think  I  will  do  her  noble 
justice. 

Well,  Paul's  gone — gone  already — has  all  his  lessons.  A 
notable  fellow! — Lord  W.'s  necessary-man  was  Paul  before 
he  went  to  sea.  A  more  sensible  rogue  Paul  than  Joseph ! 
Not  such  a  pretender  to  piety  neither  as  the  other.  At 
what  a  price  have  I  bought  that  Joseph!     I  believe  I  must 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  57 

punish  the  rascal  at  last :  but  must  let  him  marry  first : 
then  (though  that  may  be  punishment  enough)  I  shall 
punish  two  at  once  in  the  man  and  his  wife.  And  how  richly 
does  Betty  deserve  punishment  for  her  behaviour  to  my  god- 
dess! 

But  now  I  hear  the  rusty  hinges  of  my  beloved's  door  give 
me  creaking  invitation.  My  heart  creaks  and  throbs  with 
respondent  trepidations.  Whimsical  enough,  though !  for 
what  relation  has  a  lover's  heart  to  a  rusty  pair  of  hinges? 
But  they  are  the  hinges  that  open  and  shut  the  door  of  my 
beloved's  bed-chamber.     Eelation  enough  in  that. 

I  hear  not  the  door  shut  again.  I  shall  receive  her  com- 
mands I  hope  anon.  What  signifies  her  keeping  me  thus 
at  a  distance?  she  must  be  mine,  let  me  do  or  offer  what 
I  will.  Courage  whenever  I  assume,  all  is  over:  for,  should 
she  think  of  escaping  from  hence,  whither  can  she  fly  to 
avoid  me?  Her  parents  will  not  receive  her.  Her  uncles 
will  not  entertain  her.  Her  beloved  Norton  is  in  their 
direction,  and  cannot.  Miss  Howe  dare  not.  She  has  not 
one  friend  in  town  but  me — is  entirely  a  stranger  to  the 
town.  And  what  then  is  the  matter  with  me,  that  I  should 
be  thus  unaccountably  over-awed  and  tyrannised  over  by  a 
dear  creature  who  wants  only  to  know  how  impossible  it  is 
that  she  should  escape  me,  in  order  to  be  as  humble  to  me 
as  sbe  is  to  her  persecuting  relations ! 

Should  I  even  make  the  grand  attempt,  and  fail,  and 
should  she  hate  me  for  it,  her  hatred  can  be  but  temporary. 
She  has  already  incurred  the  censure  of  the  world.  She 
must  therefore  choose  to  be  mine,  for  the  sake  of  soldering 
up  her  reputation  in  the  eye  of  that  impudent  world.  For 
who  that  knows  me,  and  knows  that  she  has  been  in  my 
power,  though  but  for  twenty-four  hours,  will  think  her 
spotless  as  to  fact,  let  her  inclination  be  what  it  will?  And 
then  human  nature  is  such  a  well-known  rogue,  that  every 
man  and  woman  judges  by  what  each  knows  of  him  or  her- 
self, that  inclination  is  no  more  to  be  trusted,  where  an 
opportunity  is  given,  than  I  am;  especially  where  a  woman, 
young  and  blooming,  loves  a  man  well  enough  to  go  off 


58  THE   HISTORY    OF 

with  him;  for  such  will  be  the  world's  construction  in  the 
present  case. 

She  calls  her  maid  Dorcas.  !N'o  doubt,  that  I  may  hear 
her  harmonious  voice,  and  to  give  me  an  opportunity  to 
pour  out  my  soul  at  her  feet;  to  renew  all  my  vows;  and 
to  receive  her  pardon  for  the  past  offence:  and  then,  with 
what  pleasure  shall  I  begin  upon  a  new  score,  and  afterwards 
wipe  out  that;  and  begin  another,  and  another,  till  the 
last  offence  passes;  and  there  can  be  no  other!  And  once, 
after  that,  to  be  forgiven,  will  be  to  be  forgiven  for  ever. 

The  door  is  again  shut.  Dorcas  tells  me  that  her  lady  denies 
to  admit  me  to  dine  with  her;  a  favour  I  had  ordered  the 
wench  to  beseech  her  to  grant  me,  the  next  time  she  saw 
her — not  uncivilly,  however,  denies — coming-to  by  degrees  ! 
Nothing  but  the  last  offence,  the  honest  wench  tells  me,  in 
the  language  of  her  principals  below,  will  do  with  her.  The 
last  offence  is  meditating.  Yet  tbis  vile  recreant  heart  of 
mine  plays  me  booty. 

But  here  I  conclude;  though  the  tyranness  leaves  me 
nothing  to  do  but  to  read,  write,  and  fret. 

Subscription  is  formal  between  us.  Besides,  I  am  so 
much  hers,  that  I  cannot  say  how  much  I  am  thine  or  any 
other  person's. 


LETTEK  XV. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Tuesday,  May  9. 

If,  my  dear,  you  approve  of  the  application  to  my  uncle 
Harlowe,  I  wish  it  may  be  made  as  soon  as  possible.  We 
are  quite  out  again.  I  have  shut  myself  up  from  him.  The 
offence  indeed  not  very  great — and  yet  it  is  too.  He  had 
like  to  have  got  a  letter.  One  of  yours.  But  never  will  I 
write  again,  or  re-peruse  my  papers,  in  an  apartment  where 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  59 

he  thinks  himself  entitled  to  come.  He  did  not  read  a  line 
of  it.  Indeed  he  did  not.  So  don't  be  uneasy.  And  depend 
upon  future  caution. 

Thus  it  was.  The  sun  being  upon  my  closet,  and  Mr. 
Lovelace  abroad — 

She  then  gives  Miss  Howe  an  account  of  his  coming  hy 
surprise  upon  her:  of  his  fluttering  speech:  of  his  hold 
address:  of  her  struggle  with  him  for  the  letter,  &c. 

And  now,  my  dear,  proceeds  she,  I  am  more  and  more 
convinced  that  I  am  too  much  in  his  power  to  make  it 
prudent  to  stay  with  him.  And  if  my  friends  will  but 
give  me  hope,  I  will  resolve  to  abandon  him  for  ever. 

Oh,  my  dear !  he  is  a  fierce,  a  foolish,  an  insolent  creature ! 
— And  in  truth  I  hardly  expect  that  we  can  accommodate. 
How  much  unhappier  am  I  already  with  him  than  my 
mother  ever  was  with  my  father  after  marriage!  since  (and 
that  without  any  reason,  any  pretence  in  the  world  for  it) 
he  is  for  breaking  my  spirit  before  I  am  his,  and  while  I  am, 
or  ought  to  be  [oh,  my  folly,  that  I  am  not!]  in  my  own 
power. 

Till  I  can  know  whether  my  friends  will  give  me  hope  or 
not,  I  must  do  what  I  never  studied  to  do  before  in  any 
case;  that  is,  try  to  keep  this  difference  open:  and  yet  it 
will  make  me  look  little  in  my  own  eyes;  because  I  shall 
mean  by  it  more  than  I  can  own.  But  this  is  one  of  the 
consequences  of  a  step  I  shall  ever  deplore !  The  natural 
fruits  of  all  engagements,  where  the  minds  are  unpaired — 
dispaired,  in  my  case,  may  I  say. 

Let  this  evermore  be  my  caution  to  individuals  of  my  sex 
— Guard  your  eye :  'twill  ever  be  in  a  combination  against 
your  judgment.  If  there  are  two  parts  to  be  taken,  it  will 
for  ever,  traitor  as  it  is,  take  the  wrong  one. 

If  you  ask  me,  my  dear,  how  this  caution  befits  me?  let 
me  tell  you  a  secret  which  I  have  but  very  lately  found  out 
upon  self-examination,  although  you  seem  to  have  made  the 
discovery  long  ago:  That  had  not  my  foolish  eye  been  too 


Hr 


60  THE   HISTORY    OF 

much  attached,  I  had  not  taken  the  pains  to  attempt,  so 
officiously  as  I  did,  the  prevention  of  mischief  between  him 
and  some  of  my  family,  which  first  induced  the  correspond- 
ence between  us,  and  was  the  occasion  of  bringing  the  appre- 
hended mischief  with  double  weight  upon  himself.  My 
vanity  and  conceit,  as  far  as  I  know,  might  have  part  in  the 
inconsiderate  measure:  for  does  it  not  look  as  if  I  thought 
myself  more  capable  of  obviating  difficulties  than  anybody 
else  of  my  family? 

But  you  must  not,  my  dear,  suppose  my  heart  to  be  still 
a  confederate  with  my  eye.  That  deluded  eye  now  clearly 
sees  its  fault,  and  the  misled  heart  despises  it  for  it.  Hence 
the  application  I  am  making  to  my  uncle :  hence  it  is  that  I 
can  say  (I  think  truly)  that  I  would  atone  for  my  fault 
at  any  rate,  even  by  the  sacrifice  of  a  limb  or  two,  if  that 
would  do. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  friend! — May  your  heart  never  know 
the  hundredth  part  of  the  pain  mine  at  present  feels !  prays 

Clarissa  Harlowe. 


LETTER  XVI. 

Miss  Howe  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Wednesday,  May  10. 

I  WILL  write !  jSTo  man  shall  write  for  me.*  No  woman 
shall  hinder  me  from  writing.  Surelv  I  am  of  age  to  dis- 
tinguish  between  reason  and  caprice.  I  am  not  writing  to 
a  man,  am  I? — If  I  were  carrying  on  a  correspondence  with 
a  fellow  of  whom  my  mother  disapproved,  and  whom  it  might 
be  improper  for  me  to  encourage,  my  own  honour  and  my 
duty  would  engage  my  obedience.  But  as  the  case  is  so  widely 
different,  not  a  word  more  on  this  subject.  I  beseech  you ! 

*  Clarissa  proposes  Mr.   Hickman  to  write  for  Miss  Howe.     See 
Vol.  IV.,  Letter  IV.,  paragraph  5,  and  ult. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  61 

I  much  approve  of  your  resolution  to  leave  this  wretch, 
if  you  can  make  it  up  with  your  uncle. 

i  hate  the  man — most  heartily  do  I  hate  him,  for  his 
teasing  ways.  The  very  reading  of  your  account  of  them 
teases  me  almost  as  much  as  they  can  you.  May  you  have 
encouragement  to  fly  the  foolish  wretch ! 

I  have  other  reasons  to  wish  you  may:  for  I  have  just 
made  an  acquaintance  with  one  who  knows  a  vast  deal  of  his 
private  history.  The  man  is  really  a  villain,  my  dear!  an 
execrable  one !  if  all  be  true  that  I  have  heard !  And  yet  I 
am  promised  other  particulars.  I  do  assure  you,  my  dear 
friend,  that  had  he  a  dozen  lives,  he  might  have  forfeited 
them  all,  and  been  dead  twenty  crimes  ago. 

If  ever  you  condescend  to  talk  familiarly  with  him  again, 
ask  him  after  Miss  Betterton,  and  what  became  of  her.  And 
if  he  shuffle  and  prevaricate  as  to  her,  question  him  about 
]\Iiss  Locker. — Oh,  my  dear,  the  man's  a  villain ! 

I  will  have  your  uncle  sounded,  as  you  desire,  and  that 
out  of  hand.  But  yet  I  am  afraid  of  the  success;  and  this 
for  several  reasons.  'Tis  hard  to  say  what  the  sacrifice  of 
your  estate  would  do  with  some  people:  and  yet  I  must  not, 
when  it  comes  to  the  test,  permit  you  to  make  it. 

As  your  Hannah  continues  ill,  I  would  advise  you  to 
try  to  attach  Dorcas  to  your  interest.  Have  you  not  been 
impoliticly  shy  of  her? 

I  wish  you  could  come  at  some  of  his  letters.  Surely  a 
man  of  his  negligent  character  cannot  be  always  guarded. 
If  he  he,  and  if  you  cannot  engage  your  servant,  I  shall 
suspect  them  both.  Let  him  be  called  upon  at  a  short 
warning  when  he  is  writing,  or  when  he  has  papers  lying 
about,  and  so  surprise  him  into  negligence. 

Such  inquiries,  I  know,  are  of  the  same  nature  with 
those  we  make  at  an  inn  in  travelling,  when  we  look  into 
every  corner  and  closet,  for  fear  of  a  villain;  yet  should  be 
frighted  out  of  our  wits,  were  we  to  find  one.  But  'tis 
better  to  detect  such  a  one  when  awake  and  up,  than  to  be 
attacked  by  him  when  in  bed  and  asleep. 

I  am  glad  you  have  your  clothes.     But  no  money !     No 


62  THE   HISTORY    OF 

books  but  a  Spira,  a  Drexelius,  and  a  Practice  of  Piety! 
Those  who  sent  the  latter  ought  to  have  kept  it  for  them- 
selves.— But  I  must  hurry  myself  from  this  subject. 

You  have  exceedingly  alarmed  me  by  what  you  hint  of 
his  attempt  to  get  one  of  my  letters.  I  am  assured  by  my 
new  informant,  that  he  is  the  head  of  a  gang  of  wretches 
(those  he  brought  you  among,  no  doubt,  were  some  of 
them)  who  join  together  to  betray  innocent  creatures,  and 
to  support  one  another  afterwards  by  violence;  and  were 
he  to  come  at  the  knowledge  of  the  freedoms  I  take  with 
him,  I  should  be  afraid  to  stir  out  without  a  guard. 

I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  that  I  have  reason  to  think  that 
your  brother  has  not  laid  aside  his  foolish  plot.  A  sun- 
burnt, sailor-looking  fellow  was  with  me  just  now,  pre- 
tending great  service  to  you  from  Captain  Singleton,  could 
he  be  admitted  to  your  speech.  I  pleaded  ignorance  as  to 
the  place  of  your  abode.  The  fellow  was  too  well  instructed 
for  me  to  get  anything  out  of  him. 

I  wept  for  two  hours  incessantly  on  reading  yours,  which 
enclosed  that  from  your  cousin  Morden.*  My  dearest  crea- 
ture, do  not  desert  yourself.  Let  your  Anna  Howe  obey 
the  call  of  that  friendship  which  has  united  us  as  one  soul, 
and  endeavour  to  give  you  consolation. 

I  wonder  not  at  the  melancholy  reflections  you  so  often 
cast  upon  yourself  in  your  letters,  for  the  step  you  have 
been  forced  upon  on  one  hand,  and  tricked  into  on  the 
other.  A  strange  fatality !  As  if  it  were  designed  to  show  the 
vanity  of  all  human  prudence.  I  wish,  my  dear,  as  you 
hint,  that  both  you  and  I  have  not  too  much  prided  our- 
1/  selves  in  a  perhaps  too  conscious  superiority  over  others.  But 
I  will  stop — how  apt  are  weak  minds  to  look  out  for  judg- 
ments in  any  extraordinary  event?  'Tis  so  far  right,  that 
it  is  better,  and  safer,  and  juster,  to  arraign  ourselves,  or 
our  dearest  friends,  than  Providence;  which  must  always 
have  wise  ends  to  answer  in  its  dispensations. 

But  do  not  talk,  as  in  one  of  your  former,  of  being  a 
warning    onlyf — you   will   be    as    excellent    an    example    as 

*  See  Letter  XII.  of  Vol.  IV.      f  See  Letter  XXVL  of  Vol.  III. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  63 

ever  you  hoped  to  be,  as  well  as  a  warning:  and  that  will 
make  your  story,  to  all  that  shall  come  to  know  it,  of 
double  efficacy :  for  were  it  that  such  a  merit  as  yours  could 
not  ensure  to  herself  noble  and  generous  usage  from  a 
libertine  heart,  who  will  expect  any  tolerable  behaviour  from 
men  of  his  character  ? 

If  you  think  yourself  inexcusable  for  taking  a  step  that 
put  you  into  the  way  of  delusion,  without  any  inteJition  to 
go  off  with  him,  what  must  those  giddy  creatures  think 
of  themselves,  who,  without  half  your  provocations  and  in- 
ducements, and  without  any  regard  to  decorum,  leap  walls, 
drop  from  windows,  and  steal  away  from  their  parents' 
house  to  the  seducer's  bed,  in  the  same  day? 

Again,  if  you  are  so  ready  to  accuse  yourself  for  dis- 
pensing with  the  prohibitions  of  the  most  unreasonable  par- 
ents, which  yet  were  but  half -prohibitions  at  first,  what  ought 
those  to  do  who  wilfully  shut  their  ears  to  the  advice  of  the 
most  reasonable;  and  that  perhaps  where  apparent  ruin, 
or  undoubted  inconvenience,  is  the  consequence  of  the  pre- 
determined  rashness? 

And  lastly,  to  all  who  will  know  your  story,  you  will  be 
an  excellent  example  of  watchfulness,  and  of  that  caution 
and  reserve  by  which  a  prudent  person,  who  has  been  sup- 
posed to  be  a  little  misled,  endeavours  to  mend  her  error; 
and  never  once  losing  sight  of  her  duty,  does  all  in  her  power 
to  recover  the  path  she  has  been  rather  driven  out  of  than 
chosen  to  swerve  from. 

Come,  come,  my  dearest  friend,  consider  but  these 
things;  and  steadily,  without  desponding,  pursue  your 
earnest  purposes  to  amend  what  you  think  has  been  amiss; 
and  it  may  not  be  a  misfortune  in  the  end  that  you 
have  erred;  especially  as  so  little  of  your  will  was  in 
your  error. 

And  indeed  I  must  say  that  I  use  the  words  misled,  and 
error,  and  such-like,  only  in  compliment  to  your  own  too 
ready  self-accusations,  and  to  the  opinion  of  one  to  whom 
I  owe  duty:  for  I  think  in  my  conscience,  that  every  part 
of   your   conduct   is    defensible:    and   that   those   only   are 


64  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

blamable  who  have  no  other  way  to  clear  themselves  but 
by  condemning  you. 

I  expect,  however,  that  such  melancholy  reflections  as 
drop  from  your  pen  but  too  often  will  mingle  with  all  your 
future  pleasures,  were  you  to  marry  Lovelace,  and  were  he 
to  make  the  best  of  husbands. 

You  was  immensely  happy,  above  the  happiness  of  a 
mortal  creature,  before  you  knew  him:  everybody  almost 
worshipped  you :  envy  itself,  which  has  of  late  reared  up 
its  venomous  head  against  you,  was  awed  by  your  superior 
worthiness  into  silence  and  admiration.  You  was  the  soul 
of  every  company  where  you  visited.  Your  elders  have  I 
seen  declining  to  offer  their  opinions  upon  a  subject  till  you 
had  delivered  yours;  often,  to  save  themselves  the  mortifica- 
tion of  retracting  theirs,  when  they  heard  yours.  Yet 
in  all  this,  your  sweetness  of  manners,  your  humility  and 
affability,  caused  the  subscription  every  one  made  to  your 
sentiments,  and  to  your  superiority,  to  be  equally  unfeigned 
and  unhesitating;  for  they  saw  that  their  applause,  and 
the  preference  they  gave  you  to  themselves,  subjected  not 
themselves  to  insults,  nor  exalted  you  into  any  visible  tri- 
umph over  them;  for  you  had  always  something  to  say  on 
every  point  you  carried  that  raised  the  yielding  heart,  and 
left  every  one  pleased  and  satisfied  with  themselves,  though 
they  carried  not  off  the  palm. 

Your  works  were  showed  or  referred  to  wherever  fine 
works  were  talked  of.  Nobody  had  any  but  an  inferior 
and  secondhand  praise  for  diligence,  for  economy,  for 
reading,  for  writing,  for  memory,  for  facility  in  learning 
everything  laudable,  and  even  for  the  more  envied  graces 
of  person  and  dress,  and  an  all-surpassing  elegance  in  both, 
where  you  were  known,  and  those  subjects  talked  of. 

The  poor  blessed  you  every  step  you  trod :  the  rich  thought 
you  their  honour,  and  took  a  pride  that  they  were  not  obliged 
to  descend  from  their  own  class  for  an  example  that  did 
credit  to  it. 

Though  all  men  wished  for  you,  and  sought  you,  young  as 
you  were;  yet  had  not  those  who  were  brought  to  address 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  65 

you  been  encouraged  out  of  sordid  and  spiteful  views,  not 
one  of  them  would  have  dared  to  lift  up  his  eyes  to  you. 

Thus  happy  in  all  about  you,  thus  making  happy  all 
within  your  circle,  could  you  think  that  nothing  would 
happen  to  you,  to  convince  you  that  you  were  not  to  be 
exempted  from  the  common  lot? — To  convince  you  that 
you  were  not  absolutely  perfect;  and  that  you  must  not  ex- 
pect to  pass  through  life  without  trial,  temptation,  and  mis- 
fortune ? 

Indeed  it  must  be  owned  that  no  trial,  no  temptation, 
worthy  of  your  virtue,  and  of  your  prudence,  could  well 
have  attacked  you  sooner,  because  of  your  tender  years,  nor 
more  effectually  than  those  heavy  ones  under  which  you 
struggle;  since  it  must  be  allowed  that  your  equanimity 
and  foresight  made  you  superior  to  common  accidents;  for 
are  not  most  of  the  troubles  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  common 
mortals  brought  upon  themselves  either  by  their  too  large 
desires,  or  too  little  deserts^ — Cases,  both,  from  which  you 
stood  exempt. — It  was  therefore  to  be  some  man,  or  some 
worse  spirit  in  the  shape  of  one,  that,  formed  on  purpose, 
was  to  be  sent  to  invade  you;  while  as  many  other  such 
spirits  as  there  are  persons  in  your  family  were  permitted 
to  take  possession,  severally,  in  one  dark  hour,  of  the  heart 
of  every  one  of  it,  there  to  sit  perching  perhaps,  and  directing 
every  motion  to  the  motions  of  the  seducer  without,  in  order 
to  irritate,  to  provoke,  to  push  you  forward  to  meet  him. 

Upon  the  whole,  there  seems,  as  if  I  have  often  said,  to 
have  been  a  kind  of  fate  in  your  error,  if  it  ivere  an  error; 
and  this  perhaps  admitted  for  the  sake  of  a  better  example  to 
be  collected  from  your  sufferings^  than  could  have  been 
given  had  you  never  erred:  for,  my  dear,  the  time  of  ad- 
versity is  your  shining-time.  I  see  it  evidently,  that  ad- 
versity must  call  forth  graces  and  beauties  which  could  not 
have  been  brought  to  light  in  a  run  of  that  properous  fortune 
which  attended  you  from  your  cradle  till  now;  admirably  as 
you  became,  and,  as  we  all  thought,  greatly  as  you  deserved 
that  prosperity. 

All  the  matter  is,  the  trial  must  be  grievous  to  you.     It 


6Q  THE   HISTORY    OF 

is  to  me:  it  is  to  all  who  love  you,  and  looked  upon  you  as 
one  set  aloft  to  be  admired  and  imitated,  and  not  as  a  mark, 
as  you  have  lately  found,  for  envy  to  shoot  its  shafts  at. 

Let  what  I  have  written  about  have  its  due  weight  with 
you,  my  dear;  and  then,  as  warm  imaginations  are  not 
without  a  mixture  of  enthusiasm,  your  Anna  Howe,  who, 
on  reperusal  of  it,  imagines  it  to  be  in  a  style  superior  to 
her  usual  style,  will  be  ready  to  flatter  herself  that  she  has 
been  in  a  manner  inspired  with  the  hints  that  have  com- 
forted and  raised  the  dejected  heart  of  her  suffering  friend; 
who  from  such  hard  trials,  in  a  bloom  so  tender,  may  find 
at  times  her  spirits  sunk  too  low  to  enable  her  to  pervade 
the  surrounding  darkness  which  conceals  from  her  the  hope- 
ful dawning  of  the  better  day  which  awaits  her. 

I  will  add  no  more  at  present,  than  that  I  am 

Your  ever  faithful  and  affectionate 

Anna  Hov7e. 


LETTER  XVIL 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Friday,  May  12. 

I  MUST  be  silent,  my  exalted  friend,  under  praises  that 
oppress  my  heart  with  the  consciousness  of  not  deserving 
them;  at  the  same  time  that  the  generous  design  of  those 
praises  raises  and  comforts  it:  for  it  is  a  charming  thing  to 
stand  high  in  the  opinion  of  those  we  love ;  and  to  find  that 
there  are  souls  that  can  carry  their  friendships  beyond  acci- 
dents, beyond  body  and  ties  of  blood.  Whatever,  my  dearest 
creature,  is  my  shining-time,  the  time  of  a  friend's  adversity 
is  yours.  And  it  would  be  almost  a  fault  in  me  to  regret 
those  afflictions  which  give  you  an  opportunity  so  gloriously 
to  exert  those  qualities,  which  not  only  ennoble  our  sex,  but 
dignify  human  nature. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  67 

But  let  me  proceed  to  subjects  less  agreeable. 

I  am  sorry  you  have  reason  to  think  Singleton's  projects 
are  not  at  an  end.  But  who  knows  what  the  sailor  had 
to  propose? — Yet  had  any  good  been  intended  me,  this 
method  would  hardly  have  been  fallen  upon. 

Depend  upon  it,  my  dear,  your  letters  shall  be  safe. 

I  have  made  a  handle  of  Mr.  Lovelace's  bold  attempt 
and  freedom,  as  I  told  you  I  would,  to  keep  him  ever  since 
at  a  distance,  that  I  may  have  an  opportunity  to  see  the 
success  of  the  application  to  my  uncle,  and  to  be  at  liberty 
to  embrace  any  favourable  overtures  that  may  arise  from 
it.  Yet  he  has  been  very  importunate,  and  twice  brought 
Mr.  Mennell  from  Mrs.  Fretchville  to  talk  about  the  house. 
— //  /  should  he  obliged  to  make  up  with  him  again,  I  shall 
think  I  am  always  doing  myself  a  spite. 

As  to  what  you  mention  of  his  newly-detected  crimes; 
and  your  advice  to  attach  Dorcas  to  my  interest;  and  to 
come  at  some  of  his  letters;  these  things  will  require  more 
or  less  of  my  attention,  as  I  may  hope  favour  or  not  from 
my  uncle  Harlowe. 

I  am  sorry  that  my  poor  Hannah  continues  ill.  Pray, 
my  dear,  inform  yourself,  and  let  me  know,  whether  she 
wants  anything  that  befits  her  case. 

I  will  not  close  this  letter  till  to-morrow  is  over;  for  I 
am  resolved  to  go  to  church;  and  this  as  well  for  the  sake 
of  my  duty,  as  to  see  if  I  am  at  liberty  to  go  out  when  I 
please  without  being  attended  or  accompanied. 


Sunday,  May  14. 

I  HAVE  not  been  able  to  avoid  a  short  debate  with  Mr. 
Lovelace.  I  had  ordered  a  coach  to  the  door.  When  I 
had  notice  that  it  was  come,  I  went  out  of  my  chamber  to 
go  to  it;  but  met  him  dressed  on  the  stairs-head,  with  a 
book  in  his  hand,  but  without  his  hat  and  sword.  He 
asked,  with  an  air  very  solemn,  yet  respectful,  if  I  were 
going  abroad.  I  told  him  I  was.  He  desired  leave  to 
Vol.  IV— 7. 


68  THE   HISTORY   OF 

attend  me,  if  I  were  going  to  church.  I  refused  him.  And 
then  he  complained  heavily  of  my  treatment  of  him;  and 
declared  that  he  would  not  live  such  another  week  as  the 
past,  for  the  world. 

I  owned  to  him  very  frankly,  that  I  had  made  an  applica- 
tion to  my  friends;  and  that  I  was  resolved  to  keep  myself 
to  myself  till  I  knew  the  issue  of  it. 

He  coloured,  and  seemed  surprised.  But  checking  himself 
in  something  he  was  going  to  say,  he  pleaded  my  danger 
from  Singleton,  and  again  desired  to  attend  me. 

And  then  he  told  me  that  Mrs.  Fretchville  had  desired 
to  continue  a  fortnight  longer  in  the  house.  She  found, 
said  he,  that  I  was  unable  to  determine  about  entering 
upon  it ;  and  now  who  knows  when  such  a  vapourish  creature 
will  come  to  a  resolution?  This,  Madam,  has  been  an 
unliappy  week;  for  had  I  not  stood  upon  such  bad  terms 
with  you,  you  might  have  been  now  mistress  of  that  house; 
and  probably  had  my  cousin  Montague,  if  not  Lady  Betty, 
actually  with  you. 

And  so,  sir,  taking  all  you  say  for  granted,  your  cousin 
Montague  cannot  come  to  Mrs.  Sinclair's?  What,  pray, 
is  her  objection  to  Mrs.  Sinclair's?  Is  this  house  fit  for  me 
to  live  in  a  month  or  two,  and  not  fit  for  any  of  your  rela- 
tions for  a  few  days? — And  Mrs.  Fretchville  has  taTceji  more 
time  tool — Then,  pushing  by  him,  I  hurried  downstairs. 

He  called  to  Dorcas  to  bring  him  his  sword  and  hat; 
and  following  me  down  into  the  passage,  placed  himself 
between  me  and  the  door;  and  again  desired  leave  to  attend 
me. 

Mrs.  Sinclair  came  out  at  that  instant,  and  asked  me  if 
I  did  not  choose  a  dish  of  chocolate? 

I  wish,  Mrs.  Sinclair,  said  I,  you  would  take  this  man  in 
with  you  to  your  chocolate.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am 
at  liberty  to  stir  out  without  his  leave  or  not. 

Then  turning  to  him,  I  asked  if  he  kept  me  there  his 
prisoner  ? 

Dorcas  just  then  bringing  him  his  sword  and  hat,  he 
opened  the  street  door,  and  taking  my  reluctant  hand,  led 


//•?''// f/:  f/r^. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  69 

me,  in  a  very  obsequious  manner,  to  the  coach.  People  pass- 
ing by,  stopped,  stared,  and  whispered — But  he  is  so  graceful 
in  his  person  and  dress  that  he  generally  takes  every  eye. 

I  was  uneasy  to  be  so  gazed  at;  and  he  stepped  in  after 
me,  and  the  coachman  drove  to  St.  Paul's. 

He  was  very  full  of  assiduities  all  the  way;  while  I  was 
as  reserved  as  possible:  and  when  I  returned,  dined,  as  I 
had  done  the  greatest  part  of  the  week,  by  myself. 

He  told  me,  upon  my  resolving  to  do  so,  that  although 
he  would  continue  his  passive  observance  till  I  knew  the 
issue  of  my  application,  yet  I  must  expect  that  then  I  should 
not  rest  one  moment  till  I  had  fixed  his  happy  day:  for 
that  his  very  soul  was  fretted  with  his  slights,  resentments, 
and  delays. 

A  wretch !  when  can  I  say,  to  my  infinite  regret,  on  a 
double  account,  that  all  he  complains  of  is  owing  to  himself ! 

Oh,  that  I  may  have  good  tidings  from  my  uncle ! 

Adieu,  my  dearest  friend — This  shall  lie  ready  for  an 
exchange  (as  I  hope  for  one  to-morrow  from  you)  that  will 
decide,  as  I  may  say,  the  destiny  of 

Clarissa  Harlowe. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

Miss  Howe  to  Mrs.  Judith  Norton. 

Thursday,  May   11. 

Good  Mrs.  Norton^ — Cannot  you,  without  naming  me  as 
an  adviser,  who  am  hated  by  the  family,  contrive  a  way 
to  let  Mrs.  Harlowe  known  that  in  an  accidental  conversa- 
tion with  me,  you  had  been  assured  that  my  beloved  friend 
pines  after  a  reconciliation  with  her  relations?  That  she 
has  hitherto,  in  hopes  of  it,  refused  to  enter  into  any  obliga- 
tion that  shall  be  in  the  least  a  hindrance  to  it:  that  she 


70  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

would  fain  avoid  giving  Mr.  Lovelace  a  right  to  make  her 
family  uneasy  in  relation  to  her  grandfather's  estate:  that 
all  she  wishes  for  still  is  to  be  indulged  in  her  choice  of  a 
single  life,  and  on  that  condition,  would  make  her  father's 
pleasure  hers  with  regard  to  that  estate:  that  Mr.  Lovelace 
is  continually  pressing  her  to  marry  him;  and  all  his  friends 
likewise:  but  that  I  am  sure  she  has  so  little  liking  to  the 
man,  because  of  his  faulty  morals,  and  of  the  antipathy  of 
her  relations  to  him,  that  if  she  had  any  hope  given  her  of 
a  reconciliation,  she  would  forego  all  thoughts  of  him,  and 
put  herself  into  her  father's  protection.  But  that  their  resolu- 
tion must  be  speedy;  for  otherwise  she  would  find  herself 
obliged  to  give  way  to  his  pressing  entreaties;  and  it  might 
then  be  out  of  her  power  to  prevent  disagreeable  litigations. 

I  do  assure  you,  Mrs.  Norton,  upon  my  honour,  that  our 
dearest  friend  knows  nothing  of  this  procedure  of  mine: 
and  therefore  it  is  proper  to  acquaint  you,  in  confidence, 
with  my  grounds  for  it. — These  are  they : 

She  had  desired  me  to  let  Mr.  Hickman  drop  hints  to  the 
above  effect  to  her  uncle  Harlowe;  but  indirectly,  as  from 
himself,  lest  if  the  application  should  not  be  attended  with 
success,  and  Mr.  Lovelace  (who  already  takes  it  ill  that  he 
has  so  little  of  her  favour)  come  to  know  it,  she  may  be 
deprived  of  every  protection,  and  be  perhaps  subjected  to 
great  inconveniences  from  so  haughty  a  spirit. 

Having  this  authority  from  her,  and  being  very  solicitous 
about  the  success  of  the  application,  I  thought  that  if  the 
weight  of  so  good  a  wife,  mother,  and  sister,  as  Mrs.  Harlowe 
is  known  to  be,  were  thrown  into  the  same  scale  with  that 
of  Mr.  John  Harlowe  (supposing  he  could  be  engaged),  it 
could  hardly  fail  of  making  a  due  impression. 

Mr.  Hickman  will  see  Mr.  John  Harlowe  to-morrow:  by 
that  time  you  may  see  Mrs.  Harlowe.  If  Mr.  Hickman 
finds  the  old  gentleman  favourable,  he  will  tell  him  that 
you  will  have  seen  Mrs.  Harlowe  upon  the  same  account; 
and  will  advise  him  to  join  in  consultation  with  her  how 
best  to  proceed  to  melt  the  most  obdurate  heart  in  the 
world. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  71 

This  is  the  fair  state  of  the  matter,  and  my  true  motive 
for  writing  to  you.  I  leave  all,  therefore,  to  your  discretion ; 
and  most  heartily  wish  success  to  it;  being  of  opinion  that 
Mr.  Lovelace  cannot  possibly  deserve  our  admirable  friend; 
nor  indeed  know  I  the  man  who  does. 

Pray  acquaint  me  by  a  line  of  the  result  of  your  inter- 
position. If  it  prove  not  such  as  may  be  reasonably  hoped 
for,  our  dear  friend  shall  know  nothing  of  this  step  from 
me;  and  pray  let  her  not  from  you.  For  in  that  case  it 
would  only  give  deeper  grief  to  a  heart  already  too  much 
afflicted.    I  am,  dear  and  worthy  Mrs.  Norton, 

Your  true  friend, 

Anna  Howe. 


LETTER  XIX. 

Mrs.  Norton  to  Miss  Howe. 

Saturday,  May  13. 

Deae  Madam, — My  heart  is  almost  broken  to  be  obliged 
to  let  you  know,  that  such  is  the  situation  of  things  in 
the  family  of  my  ever-dear  Miss  Harlowe,  that  there  can  be 
at  present  no  success  expected  from  any  application  in  her 
favour.  Her  poor  mother  is  to  be  pitied.  I  have  a  most 
affecting  letter  from  her;  but  must  not  communicate  it 
to  you;  and  she  forbids  me  to  let  it  be  known  that  she 
writes  upon  the  subject;  although  she  is  compelled,  as  it 
were,  to  do  it  for  the  ease  of  her  own  heart.  I  mention  it 
therefore  in  confidence. 

I  hope  in  God  that  my  beloved  young  lady  has  preserved 
her  honour  inviolate.  I  hope  there  is  not  a  man  breathing 
who  could  attempt  a  sacrilege  so  detestable.  I  have  no 
apprehension  of  a  failure  in  a  virtue  so  established.  God 
for  ever  keep  so  pure  a  heart  out  of  the  reach  of  surprises  and 
violence !    Ease,  dear  Madam,  I  beseech  you,  my  over  anxious 


72  THE   HISTORY   OF 

heart,  by  one  line,  by  the  bearer,  although  but  one  line,  to 
acquaint  me  (as  surely  you  can)  that  her  honour  is  un- 
sullied.— If  it  be  not,  adieu  to  all  the  comforts  this  life 
can  give :  since  none  will  it  be  able  to  afford 

To  the  poor  t  >.t 

^  Judith  IS  okton. 


LETTER  XX. 

Miss  Howe  to  Mrs.  Judith  Norton. 

Saturday  Evening,  May  13. 

Dear,  good  Woman, — Your  beloved's  honour  is  inviolate ! 
— Must  be  inviolate!  and  will  be  so,  in  spite  of  men  and 
devils.  Could  I  have  had  hope  of  a  reconciliation,  all  my 
view  was,  that  she  should  not  have  had  this  man. — All  that 
can  be  said  now  is,  she  must  run  the  risk  of  a  bad  husband : 
she  of  whom  no  man  living  is  worthy ! 

You  pity  her  mother — so  do  not  I!  I  pity  no  mother 
that  puts  it  out  of  her  power  to  show  maternal  love  and 
humanity,  in  order  to  patch  up  for  herself  a  precarious  and 
sorry  quiet,  which  every  blast  of  wind  shall  disturb. 

I  hate  tyrants  in  every  form  and  shape:  but  paternal 
and  maternal  tyrants  are  the  worst  of  all:  for  they  can  have 
no  bowels. 

I  repeat,  that  I  pity  none  of  them.  Our  beloved  friend 
only  deserves  pity.  She  had  never  been  in  the  hands  of  this 
man,  but  for  them.  She  is  quite  blameless.  You  don't 
know  all  her  story.  Were  I  to  tell  you  that  she  had  no 
intention  to  go  off  with  this  man,  it  would  avail  her  noth- 
ing. It  would  only  serve  to  condemn,  with  those  who  drove 
her  to  extremities.  Mm  who  now  must  be  her  refuge.    I  am 

Your  sincere  friend  and  servant, 

Anna  Howe. 


CLARISSA    EAELOWE.  73 


LETTER  XXL 

Mrs.  Harlowe  to  Mrs.  Norton. 

[Not  communicated  till  the  letters  came  to  be  collected.] 

Saturday,  May  13. 

I  RETURN  an  answer  in  writing,  as  I  promised,  to  your 
communication.  But  take  no  notice  either  to  my  Bella's 
Betty  (who  I  understand  sometimes  visits  you),  or  to  the 
poor  wretch  herself,  nor  to  anybody,  that  I  do  write.  I 
charge  you  don't.  My  heart  is  full:  writing  may  give 
some  vent  to  my  griefs,  and  perhaps  I  may  write  what  lies 
most  upon  my  heart,  without  confining  myself  strictly  to 
the  present  subject. 

You  know  how  dear  this  ungrateful  creature  ever  was  to 
us  all.  You  know  how  sincerely  we  joined  with  every  one 
of  those  who  ever  had  seen  her,  or  conversed  with  her,  to 
praise  and  admire  her;  and  exceeded  in  our  praise  even  the 
bounds  of  that  modesty  which,  because  she  was  our  own, 
should  have  restrained  us;  being  of  opinion  that  to  havd 
been  silent  in  the  praise  of  so  apparent  a  merit  must  rather 
have  argued  blindness  or  affectation  in  us,  than  that  we 
should  incur  the  censure  of  vain  partiality  to  our  own. 

When  therefore  anybody  congratulated  us  on  such  a 
daughter,  we  received  their  congratulations  without  any  dim- 
inution. If  it  was  said  you  are  happy  in  this  child !  we 
owned  that  no  parents  ever  were  happier  in  a  child.  If, 
more  particularly,  they  praised  her  dutiful  behaviour  to  us, 
we  said  she  knew  not  how  to  offend.  If  it  was  said.  Miss 
Clarissa  Harlowe  has  a  wit  and  penetration  beyond  her  years ; 
we,  instead  of  disallowing  it,  would  add — and  a  judgment 
no  less  extraordinary  than  her  wit.  If  her  prudence  was 
praised,  and  a  forethought,  which  every  one  saw  supplied 
what  only  years  and  experience  gave  to  others — nobody  need 
to  scruple  taking  lessons  from  Clarissa  Harlowe,  was  our 
proud  answer. 


74  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Forgive  me,  oh  forgive  me,  my  dear  Norton. — But  I  know 
you  will;  for  yours,  when  good,  was  this  child,  and  your 
glory  as  well  as  mine. 

But  have  you  not  heard  strangers,  as  she  passed  to  and 
from  church,  stop  to  praise  the  angel  of  a  creature,  as  they 
called  her;  when  it  was  enough  for  those  who  knew  who 
she  was,  to  cry.  Why,  it  is  Miss  Clarissa  Harloive! — as  if 
everybody  were  obliged  to  know,  or  to  have  heard  of  Clarissa 
Harlowe,  and  of  her  excellences.  While,  accustomed  to 
praise,  it  was  too  familiar  to  her,  to  cause  her  to  alter  either 
her  look  or  her  pace. 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  stifle  a  pleasure  that  had 
perhaps  a  faulty  vanity  for  its  foundation,  whenever  I  was 
spoken  of,  or  addressed  to,  as  the  mother  of  so  sweet  a 
child.  Mr.  Harlowe  and  I,  all  the  time,  loving  each  other 
the  better  for  the  share  each  had  in  such  a  daughter. 

Still,  still  indulge  the  fond,  the  overflowing  heart  of  a 
mother !  I  could  dwell  for  ever  upon  the  remembrance  of 
what  she  was,  would  but  that  remembrance  banish  from  my 
mind  what  she  is! 

In  her  bosom,  young  as  she  was,  could  I  repose  all  my 
griefs — sure  of  receiving  from  her  prudence  advice  as  well 
as  comfort;  and  both  insinuated  in  so  humble,  in  so  dutiful 
a  manner,  that  it  was  impossible  to  take  those  exceptions 
which  the  distance  of  years  and  character  between  a  mother 
and  a  daughter  would  have  made  one  apprehensive  of  from 
any  other  daughter.  She  was  our  glory  when  abroad,  our 
delight  when  at  home.  Ever3^body  was  even  covetous  of  her 
company;  and  we  grudged  her  to  our  brothers  Harlowe,  and 
to  our  sister  and  brother  Hervey.  ISTo  other  contention  among 
us,  then,  but  who  should  be  next  favoured  by  her.  No  chid- 
ing ever  knew  she  from  us,  but  the  chiding  of  lovers,  when 
she  was  shutting  herself  up  too  long  together  from  us,  in 
the  pursuit  of  those  charming  amusements  and  useful  em- 
ployments, for  which,  however,  the  whole  family  was  the 
better. 

Our  other  children  had  reason  (good  children  as  they 
always  were)  to  think  themselves  neglected.     But  they  like- 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  75 

wise  were  so  sensible  of  their  sister's  superiority,  and  of  the 
honour  she  reflected  upon  the  whole  family,  that  they  con- 
fessed themselves  eclipsed,  without  envying  the  eclipser. 
Indeed  there  was  not  anybody  so  equal  with  her,  in  their 
own  opinions,  as  to  envy  what  all  aspired  but  to  emulate. 
The  dear  creature,  you  know,  my  Norton,  gave  an  eminence 
to  us  all! 

Then  her  acquirements.  Her  skill  in  music,  her  fine 
needle-works,  her  elegance  in  dress;  for  which  she  was  so 
much  admired,  that  the  neighbouring  ladies  used  to  say 
that  they  need  not  fetch  fashions  from  London;  since  what- 
ever Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  wore  was  the  best  fashion,  be- 
cause her  choice  of  natural  beauties  set  those  of  art  far  be- 
hind them.  Her  genteel  ease,  and  fine  turn  of  person; 
her  deep  reading,  and  these.  Joined  to  her  open  manners, 
and  her  cheerful  modesty — Oh,  my  good  Norton,  what  a 
sweet  child  was  once  my  Clary  Harlowe ! 

This,  and  more,  you  knew  her  to  be;  for  many  of  her 
excellences  were  owing  to  yourself;  and  with  the  milk  you 
gave  her,  you  gave  her  what  no  other  nurse  in  the  world 
could  give   her. 

And  do  you  think,  my  worthy  woman,  do  you  think  that 
the  wilful  lapse  of  such  a  child  is  to  be  forgiven?  Can  she 
herself  think  that  she  deserves  not  the  severest  punishment 
for  the  abuse  of  such  talents  as  were  intrusted  to  her? 

Her  fault  was  a  fault  of  premeditation,  of  cunning,  of 
contrivance.  She  has  deceived  everybody's  expectations.  Her 
whole  sex,  as  well  as  the  family  she  sprung  from,  is  dis- 
graced by  it. 

Would  anybody  ever  have  believed  that  such  a  young 
creature  as  this,  who  had  by  her  advice  saved  even  her  over- 
lively  friend  from  marrying  a  fop  and  a  libertine,  would  her- 
self have  gone  off  with  one  of  the  vilest  and  most  notorious 
of  libertines?  A  man  whose  character  she  knew;  and  knew 
it  to  be  worse  than  the  character  of  him  from  whom  she 
saved  her  friend;  a  man  against  whom  she  was  warned;  one 
who  had  her  brother's  life  in  his  hands;  and  who  constantly 
set  our  whole  family  at  defiance. 


76  THE   HISTORY   OF 

Thiiik  for  me,  my  good  Norton;  think  what  my  unhap- 
piness  must  be  both  as  a  wife  and  a  mother.  What  rest- 
less days,  what  sleepless  nights ;  yet  my  own  rankling  anguish 
endeavoured  to  be  smoothed  over,  to  soften  the  anguish  of 
fiercer  spirits,  and  to  keep  them  from  blazing  out  to  further 
mischief!  Oh,  this  naughty,  naughty  girl,  who  Jcnew  so 
well  what  she  did;  and  who  could  look  so  far  into  con- 
sequences, that  we  thought  she  would  have  died  rather  than 
have  done  as  she  has  done ! 

Her  known  character  for  prudence  leaves  her  absolutely 
without  excuse.  How  then  can  I  offer  to  plead  for  her,  if 
through  motherly  indulgence,  I  would  forgive  her  myself? 
— And  have  we  not  moreover  suffered  all  the  disgrace  that 
can  befall  us?     Has  not  she? 

If  now  she  has  so  little  liking  to  his  morals,  had  she  not 
reason  before  to  have  as  little?  Or  has  she  suffered  by 
them  in  her  own  person? — Oh,  my  good  woman,  I  doubt — I 
doubt — Will  not  the  character  of  the  man  make  one  doubt 
an  angel,  if  once  in  his  power?  The  world  will  think  the 
worst.  I  am  told  it  does.  So  likewise  her  father  fears; 
her  brother  hears;  and  what  can  J  do? 

Our  antipathy  to  him  she  knew  before,  as  well  as  his 
character.  These  therefore  cannot  be  new  motives  without 
a  new  reason. — Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Norton,  how  shall  I,  how 
can  you^  support  ourselves  under  the  apprehensions  to  which 
these  thoughts  lead ! 

He  continually  pressing  her,  you  say,  to  marry  him:  his 
friends  liJcewise.  She  has  reason,  no  doubt  she  has  reason 
for  this  application  to  us:  and  her  crime  is  glossed  over,  to 
bring  her  to  us  with  new  disgrace !  Whither,  whither,  does 
one  guilty  step  lead  the  misguided  heart! — And  now,  truly, 
to  save  a  stubborn  spirit,  we  are  only  to  be  sounded,  that  the 
application  may  be  occasionally  retracted  or  denied ! 

Upon  the  whole:  were  I  inclined  to  plead  for  her,  it  is 
now  the  most  improper  of  all  times.  Now  that  my  brother 
Harlowe  has  discouraged  (as  he  last  night  came  hither  on 
purpose  to  tell  us)  Mr.  Hickman's  insinuated  application; 
and  been  applauded  for  it.     Now,  that  my  brother  Antony 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  77 

is  intending  to  carry  his  great  fortune,  through  her  fault, 
into  another  family: — she  expecting,  no  doubt,  herself  to 
be  put  into  her  grandfather's  estate,  in  consequence  of  a 
reconciliation,  and  as  a  reward  for  her  fault:  and  insisting 
still  upon  the  same  terms  which  she  offered  before,  and 
which  were  rejected — Not  through  my  fault,  I  am  sure, 
rejected ! 

From  all  these  things  you  will  return  such  an  answer  as 
the  case  requires.  It  might  cost  me  the  peace  of  my  whole 
life,  at  this  time,  to  move  for  her.  God  forgive  her!  If  I 
do,  nobody  else  will.  And  let  it,  for  your  own  sake,  as  well 
as  mine,  be  a  secret  that  you  and  I  have  entered  upon  this 
subject.  And  I  desire  you  not  to  touch  upon  it  again  but 
by  particular  permission:  for,  oh,  my  dear,  good  woman,  it 
sets  my  heart  a  bleeding  in  as  many  streams  as  there  are 
veins  in  it ! 

Yet  think  me  not  impenetrable  by  a  proper  contrition 
and  remorse — But  what  a  torment  is  it  to  have  a  will  with- 
out a  power ! 

Adieu!  adieu!  God  give  us  both  comfort;  and  to  the 
once  dear — the  ever-desiT  creature  (for  can  a  mother  for- 
get her  child?)  repentance,  deep  repentance!  and  as  little 
suffering  as  may  befit  His  blessed  will,  and  her  grievous 
fault,  prays 

Your  real  friend, 

Charlotte  Haelowe. 


LETTEE  XXII. 

Miss  Howe  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Sunday,  May  14. 

How  it  is  now,  my  dear,  between  you  and  Mr.  Lovelace, 
I  cannot  tell.  But  wicked  as  the  man  is,  I  am  afraid  he 
must  be  your  lord  and  master. 

I  called  him  by  several  very  hard  names  in  my  last.    I  had 


78  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

but  just  heard  of  some  of  his  vilenesses  when  I  sat  down  to 
write;  so  my  indignation  was  raised.  But  on  inquiry  and 
recollection,  I  find  that  the  facts  laid  to  his  charge  were  all 
of  them  committed  some  time  ago — not  since  he  has  had 
strong  hopes  of  your  favour. 

This  is  saying  something  for  him.  His  generous  beha- 
viour to  the  innkeeper's  daughter  is  a  more  recent  instance 
to  his  credit;  to  say  nothing  of  the  universal  good  character 
he  has  as  a  kind  landlord.  And  then  I  approve  much  of  the 
motion  he  made  to  put  you  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Fretch- 
ville's  house,  while  he  continues  at  the  other  widow's,  till 
you  agree  that  one  house  should  hold  you.  I  wish  this  were 
done.  Be  sure  you  embrace  this  offer  (if  you  do  not  soon 
meet  at  the  altar),  and  get  one  of  his  cousins  with  you. 

Were  you  once  married,  1  should  think  you  cannot  be  very 
unhappy,  though  you  may  not  be  so  happy  with  him  as  you 
deserve  to  be.  The  stake  he  has  in  his  country,  and  his  re- 
versions; the  care  he  takes  of  his  affairs;  his  freedom  from 
obligation;  nay,  his  pride,  with  your  merit,  must  be  a  tol- 
erable security  for  you,  I  should  think.  Though  particulars 
of  his  wickedness,  as  they  come  to  my  knowledge,  hurt  and 
incense  me ;  yet,  after  all,  when  I  give  myself  time  to  reflect, 
all  that  I  have  heard  of  him  to  his  disadvantage  was  com- 
prehended in  the  general  character  given  of  him  long  ago 
by  Lord  M.'s  and  his  own  dismissed  bailiff,*  and  which  was 
confirmed  to  me  by  Mrs.  Fortescue,  as  I  heretofore  told  you,f 
and  to  you  by  Mrs.  Greme.^ 

You  can  have  nothing,  therefore,  I  think,  to  be  deeply 
concerned  about  but  his  future  good,  and  the  bad  example 
he  may  hereafter  set  to  his  own  family.  These  indeed  are 
very  just  concerns :  but  were  you  to  leave  him  now,  either 
with  or  vnthout  his  consent,  his  fortunes  and  alliances  so 
considerable,  his  person  and  address  so  engaging  (every  one 
excusing  you  now  on  those  accounts,  and  because  of  your 
relations'  follies),  it  would  have  a  very  ill  appearance  for 
your  reputation.    I  cannot,  therefore,  on  the  most  deliberate 

*  See  Vol.  I.,  Letter  IV.  f  Ibid.,  Letter  XII. 

$  See  Vol.   III.,  Letter  IV. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  79 

consideration,  advise  you  to  think  of  that,  wliile  you  have  no 
reason  to  doubt  his  honour.  May  eternal  vengeance  pursue 
the  villain,  if  he  give  room  for  an  apprehension  of  this  nature ! 

Yet  his  teasing  ways  are  intolerable:  his  acquiescence 
with  your  slight  delays,  and  his  resignedness  to  the  distance 
you  now  keep  him  at  (for  a  fault  so  much  slighter,  as  he 
must  think,  than  the  punishment),  are  unaccountable.  He 
doubts  your  love  of  him,  that  is  very  probable;  but  you  have 
reason  to  be  surprised  at  his  want  of  ardour;  a  blessing  so 
great  within  his  reach,  as  I  may  say. 

By  the  time  you  have  read  to  this  place,  you  will  have  no 
doubt  of  what  has  been  the  issue  of  the  conference  between 
the  two  gentlemen.  I  am  equally  shocked,  and  enraged 
against  them  all.  Against  them  all,  I  say;  for  I  have  tried 
your  good  Norton's  weight  with  your  mother  (though  at 
first  I  did  not  intend  to  tell  you  so),  to  the  same  purpose 
as  the  gentleman  sounded  your  uncle.  Never  were  there 
such  determined  brutes  in  the  world !  Why  should  I  mince 
the  matter?  Yet  would  I  fain,  methinks,  make  an  excep- 
tion for  your  mother. 

Your  uncle  will  have  it  that  you  are  ruined.    '  He  can  be- 

*  lieve  everything  bad  of  a  creature,  he  says,  who  could  run 
'  away  with  a  man ;  with  such  a  one  especially  as  Lovelace. 
'  They  expected  applications  from  you,  when  some  heavy  dis- 
'  tress  had  fallen  upon  you.     But  they  are  all  resolved  not 

*  to  stir  an  inch  in  your  favour ;  no,  not  to  save  your  life ! ' 

My  dearest  soul,  resolve  to  assert  your  right.  Claim  your 
own,  and  go  and  live  upon  it  as  you  ought.  Then,  if  you 
marry  not,  how  will  the  wretches  creep  to  you  for  your  re- 
versionary dispositions ! 

You  were  accused  (as  in  your  aunt's  letter)  '  of  premedi- 
'tation  and  contrivance  in  your  escape.'  Instead  of  pitying 
you,  the  mediating  person  was  called  upon  'to  pity  them; 
'  who  once,  your  uncle  said,  doated  upon  you :  who  took  no 
'  jov  but  in  your  presence :  who  devoured  your  words  as  you 
'  spoke  them :  who  trod  over  again  your  footsteps,  as  you 
'  walked  before  them.' — And  T  know  not  what  of  this  sort. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  is  now  evident  to  me,  and  so  it  must 


80  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

be  to  you,  when  you  read  this  letter,  that  you  must  be  his. 
And  the  sooner  you  are  so  the  better.  Shall  we  suppose  that 
marriage  is  not  in  your  power? — I  cannot  have  patience  to 
suppose  that. 

I  am  concerned,  niethinlvs,  to  know  how  you  will  do  to 
condescend  (now  you  see  you  must  be  his),  after  you  have 
kept  him  at  such  a  distance;  and  for  the  revenge  his  pride 
may  put  him  upon  taking  for  it.  But  let  me  tell  you,  that 
if  my  going  up,  and  sharing  fortunes  with  you,  will  prevent 
such  a  noble  creature  from  stooping  too  low;  much  more, 
were  it  likely  to  prevent  your  ruin,  I  would  not  hesitate  a 
moment  about  it.  What  is  the  whole  world  to  me,  weighed 
against  such  a  friend  as  you  are?  Think  you  that  any  of 
the  enjoyments  of  this  life  could  be  enjoyments  to  me,  were 
you  involved  in  calamities  from  which  I  could  either  alle- 
viate or  relieve  you,  by  giving  up  those  enjoyments?  And 
what  in  saying  this,  and  acting  up  to  it,  do  I  offer  you,  but 
the  fruits  of  a  friendship  your  worth  has  created? 

Excuse  my  warmth  of  expression.  The  warmth  of  my 
Tieart  wants  none.  I  am  enraged  at  your  relations;  for,  bad 
as  what  I  have  mentioned  is,  I  have  not  told  you  all;  nor 
now,  perhaps,  ever  will.  I  am  angry  at  my  own  mother's 
narrowness  of  mind,  and  at  her  indiscriminate  adherence  to 
old  notions.  And  I  am  exasperated  against  your  foolish, 
your  low-vanitied  Lovelace.  But  let  us  stoop  to  take  the 
wretch  as  he  is,  and  make  the  best  of  him,  since  you  are 
destined  to  stoop,  to  keep  grovellers  and  worldlings  in  coun- 
tenance. He  has  not  been  guilty  of  direct  indecency  to  you. 
Nor  dare  he — not  so  much  of  a  devil  as  that  comes  to  neither. 
Had  he  such  villainous  intentions,  so  much  in  his  power  as 
you  are,  they  would  have  shown  themselves  before  now  to 
such  a  penetrating  and  vigilant  eye,  and  to  such  a  pure  heart 
as  yours.  Let  us  save  the  wretch  then,  if  we  can,  though 
we  soil  our  fingers  in  lifting  him  up  his  dirt. 

There  is  yet,  to  a  person  of  your  fortune  and  indepen- 
dence, a  good  deal  to  do,  if  you  enter  upon  those  terms  which 
ought  to  be  entered  upon.  I  don't  find  that  he  has  once 
talked  of    settlements;    nor  yet  of    the  license.      A  foolish 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  81 

wretch  I — But  as  your  evil  destiny  has  thrown  you  out  of  all 
other  protection  and  mediation,  you  must  be  father,  mother, 
uncle,  to  yourself;  and  enter  ujjon  the  requisite  points  for 
yourself.  It  is  hard  upon  you;  but  indeed  you  must.  Your 
situation  requires  it.  What  room  for  delicacy  now  f — Or  would 
you  have  me  write  to  him  ?  yet  that  would  be  the  same  thing 
as  if  you  were  to  write  yourself.  Yet  write  you  should,  I 
think,  if  you  cannot  speak.  But  speaking  is  certainly  best : 
for  words  leave  no  traces;  they  pass  as  breath;  and  mingle 
with  air;  and  may  be  explained  with  latitude.  But  the  pen 
is  a  witness  on  record. 

I  know  the  gentleness  of  your  spirit;  I  know  the  laudable 
pride  of  your  heart;  and  the  just  notion  you  have  of  the  dig- 
nity of  your  sex  in  these  delicate  points.  But  once  more,  all 
this  is  nothing  now:  your  honour  is  concerned  that  the  dig- 
nity 1  speak  of  should  not  be  stood  upon. 

'  Mr.  Lovelace,'  would  I  say ;  yet  hate  the  foolish  fellow 
for  his  low,  his  stupid  pride,  in  wishing  to  triumph  over 
the  dignity  of  his  own  wife ; — '  I  am  by  your  means  deprived 
'  of  every  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  In  what  light  am  I 
'  to  look  upon  you  f    I  have  well  considered  everything.    You 

*  have  made  some  people,  much  against  my  liking,  thinlv  me 

*  a  wife :  others  know  I  am  not  married ;  nor  do  I  desire  any- 
'  body  should  believe  I  am.  Do  you  think  your  being  here 
'  in  the  same  house  with  me  can  be  to  my  reputation  ?  You 
'talked  to  me  of  Mrs.  Fretchville's  house.'  This  will  bring 
him  to  renew  his  last  discourse  on  that  subject,  if  he  does 
not  revive  it  of  himself.    '  If  Mrs.  Fretchville  knows  not  her 

*  own  mind,  what  is  her  house  to  me  ?    You  talked  of  bring- 

*  ing  up  your  cousin  Montague  to  bear  me  company :  if  my 
'brother's  schemes  be  your  pretence  for  not  going  yourself 
*to  fetch  her,  you  can  write  to  her.  I  insist  upon  bringing 
'these  two  points  to  an  issue:  off  or  on  ought  to  be  indif- 
'  ferent  to  me,  if  so  to  them,.' 

Such  a  declaration  must  bring  all  forward.  There  are 
twenty  waj's,  my  dear,  that  you  will  find  out  for  another 
in  your  circumstances.  He  will  disdain,  from  his  native 
insolence,  to  have  it  thought  he  has  anybody  to  consult.   Well 


83  THE   HISTORY    OF 

then,  will  he  not  be  obliged  to  declare  himself?  And  if  he 
does,  no  delays  on  your  side,  I  beseech  you.  Give  him  the 
day.  Let  it  be  a  short  one.  It  would  be  derogating  from 
your  own  merit,  and  honour  too,  let  me  tell  you,  even  al- 
though he  should  not  be  so  explicit  as  he  ought  to  be,  to 
seem  but  to  doubt  his  meaning;  and  to  wait  for  that  expla- 
nation for  which  I  should  for  ever  despise  him,  if  he  makes 
it  necessarj^  Twice  already  have  you,  my  dear,  if  not 
oftener,  modestied  away  such  opportunities  as  you  ought  not 
to  have  slipped.  As  to  settlements,  if  they  come  not  in  nat- 
urally, e'en  leave  them  to  his  own  justice,  and  to  the  jus- 
tice of  his  family.     And  there's  an  end  of  the  matter. 

This  is  my  advice:  mend  it  as  circumstances  offer,  and 
follow  your  own.  But  indeed,  my  dear,  this,  or  something 
like  it,  would  I  do.  And  let  him  tell  me  afterwards,  if  he 
dared  or  would,  that  he  humbled  down  to  his  shoe-buckles 
the  person  it  would  have  been  his  glory  to  exalt. 

Support  yourself,  meantime,  with  reflections  worthy  of 
yourself.  Though  tricked  into  this  man's  power,  you  are 
not  meanly  subjugated  to  it.  All  his  reverence  you  com- 
mand, or  rather,  as  T  may  say,  inspire;  since  it  was  never 
known  that  he  had  any  reverence  for  aught  that  was  good, 
till  you  was  with  him :  and  he  professes  now  and  then  to  be 
so  awed  and  charmed  by  your  example,  as  that  the  force  of 
it  shall  reclaim  him. 

I  believe  you  will  have  a  difficult  task  to  keep  him  to  it: 
but  the  more  will  be  yonr  honour,  if  you  effect  his  reforma- 
tion :  and  it  is  my  belief  that  if  you  can  reclaim  this  great, 
this  specious  deceiver,  who  has,  morally  speaking,  such  a 
number  of  years  before  him,  you  will  save  from  ruin  a  mul- 
titude of  innocents;  for  those  seem  to  me  to  have  been  the 
prey  for  which  he  has  spread  his  wicked  snares.  And  who 
knows  but  for  this  very  purpose,  principally,  a  person  may 
have  been  permitted  to  swerve,  whose  heart  or  will  never 
was  in  her  error,  and  who  has  so  much  remorse  upon  her 
for  having,  as  she  thinks,  erred  at  all?  Adieu,  my  dearest 
friend. 

Anna  Hov^^e. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  83 

Enclosed  in  the  above. 

I  MUST  trouble  you  with  my  concerns,  though  your  own 
are  so  heavy  upon  you.  A  piece  of  news  I  have  to  tell  you. 
Your  uncle  Antony  is  disposed  to  marry.  With  whom, 
think  you?  with  my  mother.  True  indeed.  Your  family 
know  it.  All  is  laid  with  redoubled  malice  at  your  door. 
And  there  the  old  soul  himself  lays  it. 

Take  no  notice  of  this  intelligence,  not  so  much  as  in  your 
letters  to  me,  for  fear  of  accidents. 

1  think  it  can't  do.  But  were  I  to  provoke  my  mother, 
that  might  afford  a  pretence.  Else,  I  should  have  been  with 
you  before  now,  I  fancy. 

The  first  likelihood  that  appears  to  me  of  encouragement, 
I  dismiss  Hickman,  that's  certain.  If  my  mother  disoblige 
me  in  so  important  an  article,  I  shan't  think  of  obliging  her 
in  such  another.  It  is  possible,  surely,  that  the  desire  of 
popping  me  off  to  that  honest  man  can  be  with  such  a 
view. 

1  repeat,  that  it  cannot  come  to  anything.  But  these 
widows! — Then  such  a  love  in  us  all,  both  old  and  young, 
of  being  courted  and  admired ! — and  so  irresistible  to  their 
elderships  to  be  flattered,  that  all  power  is  not  over  with 
them ;  but  that  they  may  still  class  and  prank  it  with  their 
daughters. — It  vexed  me  heartily  to  have  her  tell  me  of  this 
proposal  with  self -complaisant  simperings;  and  yet  she  af- 
fected to  speak  of  it  as  if  she  had  no  intention  to  encour- 
age it. 

These  antiquated  bachelors  (old  before  they  believe  them- 
selves to  be  so)  imagine  that  when  they  have  once  persuaded 
themselves  to  think  of  the  state,  they  have  nothing  more  to 
do  than  to  make  their  minds  known  to  the  woman. 

Your  uncle's  overgrown  fortune  is  indeed  a  bait;  a  tempt- 
ing one.  A  saucy  daughter  to  be  got  rid  of!  The  memory 
of  the  father  of  that  daughter  not  precious  enough  to  weigh 
much ! — But  let  him  advance  if  he  dare — let  her  encourage 
— but  I  hope  she  won't. 

Excuse  me,  my  dear.  I  am  nettled.  They  have  fearfully 
Vol.  IV— 8. 


84  THE   HISTORY    OF 

rumpled  my  gorget.  You'll  think  me  faulty.  So  I  won't 
put  my  name  to  this  separate  paper.  Other  hands  may  re- 
semble mine.    You  did  not  see  me  write  it. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Monday  Afternoon,  May  15. 

Now  indeed  it  is  evident,  my  best,  my  only  friend,  that  I 
have  but  one  choice  to  make.  And  now  I  do  find  that  I  have 
carried  my  resentment  against  this  man  too  far;  since  now 
I  am  to  appear  as  if  under  an  obligation  to  his  patience  with 
me  for  a  conduct,  which  perhaps  he  will  think  (if  not  humor- 
some  and  childish)  plainly  demonstrative  of  my  little  esteem 
of  him;  of  but  a  secondary  esteem  at  least,  where  before,  his 
pride,  rather  than  his  merit,  had  made  him  expect  a  first. 
Oh,  my  dear !  to  be  cast  upon  a  man  that  is  not  a  generous 
man ;  that  is  indeed  a  cruel  man !  a  man  that  is  capable  of 
creating  a  distress  to  a  young  creature,  who,  by  her  evil 
destiny  is  thrown  into  his  power;  and  then  of  enjoying  it, 
as  I  may  say !  [I  verily  think  I  may  say  so  of  this  savage !] — 
What  a  fate  is  mine ! 

You  give  me,  my  dear,  good  advice  as  to  the  peremptory 
manner  in  which  I  ought  to  treat  him :  but  do  you  consider 
to  whom  it  is  that  you  give  it? — And  then  should  I  take  it, 
and  should  he  be  capable  of  delay,  I  unprotected,  desolate, 
:!iobody  to  fly  to,  in  what  a  wretched  light  must  I  stand  in 
his  eyes;  and,  what  is  still  as  bad,  in  my  own !  Oh,  my  dear, 
^ee  you  not,  as  I  do,  that  the  occasion  for  this  my  indelicate, 
my  shocking  situation  should  never  have  been  given  by  me, 
of  all  creatures;  since  I  am  unequal,  utterly  unequal,  to  the 
circumstances  to  which  my  inconsideration  has  reduced  me; 
— What !  I  to  challenge  a  man  for  a  husband ! — I  to  exert 
myself  to  quicken  the  delayer  in  his  resolutions !  and  having 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  85 

as  you  think  lost  an  opportunity,  to  begin  to  try  to  recall  it, 
as  from  myself,  and  for  myself!  to  threaten  him,  as  I  may 
say,  into  the  marriage  state ! — Oh,  my  dear !  if  this  be  right 
to  be  done,  how  difficult  is  it,  where  modesty  and  self  (or 
where  pride,  if  you  please)  is  concerned,  to  do  that  right? 
or,  to  express  myself  in  your  words,  to  be  father,  mother, 
uncle,  to  myself! — especially  where  one  thinks  a  triumph 
over  one  is  intended. 

You  say  you  have  tried  Mrs.  Norton's  weight  with  my 
mother — bad  as  the  returns  are  which  my  application  by 
Mr.  Hickman  has  met  with,  you  tell  me  'that  you  have  not 
'acquainted  me  with  all  the  bad,  nor  now,  perhaps,  ever 
*will.'  But  why  so,  my  dear?  What  is  the  bad,  what  can 
be  the  bad,  which  now  you  will  never  tell  me  of? — What 
worse,  then  renounce  me !  and  for  ever !     '  My  uncle,  you 

*  say,  believes  me  ruined :  he  declares  that  he  can  believe 

*  everything  bad  of  a  creature  who  could  run  away  with  a 

*  man :  and  they  have  all  made  a  resolution  not  to  stir  an 

*  inch  in  my  favour ;  no,  not  to  save  my  life ! ' — Have  you 
worse  than  this,  my  dear,  behind? — Surely  my  father  has 
not  renewed  his  dreadful  malediction! — Surely,  if  so,  my 
mother  has  not  joined  in  it !  Have  my  uncles  given  it  their 
sanction,  and  made  it  a  family  act  ?  And  themselves  thereby 
more  really  faulty,  than  even  they  suppose  me  to  he,  though 
I  the  cause  of  that  greater  fault  in  them? — What,  my  dear, 
is  the  worst,  that  you  will  leave  for  ever  unrevealed? 

0  Lovelace!  why  comest  thou  not  just  now,  while  these 
black  prospects  are  before  me?  For  now,  couldst  thou  look 
into  my  heart,  wouldst  thou  see  a  distress  worthy  of  thy  bar- 
barous triumph! 

1  WAS  forced  to  quit  my  pen.  And  you  say  you  have  tried 
Mrs.  Norton's  weight  with  my  mother  ? 

What  is  done  cannot  be  remedied :  but  I  wish  you  had  not 
taken  a  step  of  this  importance  to  me  without  first  consult- 
ing me.  Forgive  me,  my  dear,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  that 
high-souled  and  noble  friendship  which  you  have  ever  avowed 
with  so  obliging  and  so  uncommon  a  warmth,  although  it 


86  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

has  been  always  the  subject  of  my  grateful  admiration,  has 
been  often  the  ground  of  my  apprehension,  because  of  its 
unbridled  fervour. 

Well,  but  now  to  look  forward,  you  are  of  opinion  that  I 
must  be  his :  and  that  I  cannot  leave  him  with  reputation  to 
myself,  whether  with  or  without  his  consent.  I  must,  if  so, 
make  the  best  of  the  bad  matter. 

He  went  out  in  the  morning;  intending  not  to  return  to 
dinner,  unless  (as  he  sent  me  word)  I  would  admit  him  to 
dine  with  me. 

I  excused  myself.  The  man,  whose  anger  is  now  to  be  of 
such  high  importance  to  me,  was,  it  seems,  displeased. 

As  he  (as  well  as  I)  expected  that  I  should  receive  a  let- 
ter from  you  this  day  by  Collins,  I  suppose  he  will  not  be 
long  before  he  returns;  and  then,  possibl}^,  he  is  to  be  mighty 
stately,  mighty  mannish,  mighty  coy,  if  you  please !  And 
then  I  must  be  very  humble,  very  submissive,  and  try  to  in- 
sinuate myself  into  his  good  graces :  with  downcast  eye  if  not 
by  speech,  beg  his  forgiveness  for  the  distance  I  have  so  per- 
versely kept  him  at  ? — Yes,  I  warrant ! — But  I  shall  see  how 
this  behaviour  will  sit  upon  me ! — You  have  always  rallied 
me  upon  my  meekness,  I  think:  well  then,  I  will  try  if  I 
can  be  still  meeker,  shall  I ! — Oh,  my  dear ! — 

But  let  me  sit  with  my  hands  before  me,  all  patience,  all 
resignation;  for  I  think  I  hear  him  coming  up.  Or  shall 
roundly  accost  him,  in  the  words,  in  the  form,  which  you, 
my  dear,  prescribed? 

He  is  come  in.  He  has  sent  to  me,  all  impatience,  as  Dor- 
cas says,  by  his  aspect. — But  I  cannot,  cannot  see  him ! 


Monday  Night. 

The  contents  of  your  letter,  and  my  own  heavy  reflections, 
rendered  me  incapable  of  seeing  this  expecting  man.  The 
first  word  he  asked  Dorcas  was,  if  I  had  received  a  letter 
since  he  had  been  out?  She  told  me  this;  and  her  answer 
that  I  had ;  and  was  fasting,  and  had  been  in  tears  ever  since. 


CLARISSA   HABLOWE.  87 

He  sent  to  desire  an  interview  with  me. 

I  answered  by  her,  that  I  was  not  very  well.  In  the  morn- 
ing, if  better,  I  would  see  him  as  soon  as  he  pleased. 

Very  humble!  was  it  not,  my  dear?  Yet  he  was  too  royal 
to  take  it  for  humility ;  for  Dorcas  told  me  he  rubbed  one  side 
of  his  face  impatiently;  and  said  a  rash  word,  and  was  out 
of  humour;  stallving  about  the  room. 

Half  an  hour  after,  he  sent  again;  desiring  very  earnestly 
that  I  should  admit  him  to  supper  with  me.  He  would  enter 
upon  no  subjects  of  conversation  but  what  I  should  lead  to. 

So  I  should  have  been  at  liberty,  you  see,  to  court  him! 

I  again  desired  to  be  excused. 

Indeed,  my  dear,  my  eyes  were  swelled:  I  was  very  low 
spirited;  and  could  not  think  of  entering  all  at  once,  after 
the  distance  I  had  kept  him  at  for  several  days,  into  the  free- 
dom of  conversation  which  the  utter  rejection  I  have  met 
with  from  my  relations,  as  well  as  your  advice,  has  made 
necessary. 

He  sent  up  to  tell  me  that,  as  he  heard  I  was  fasting,  if  I 
would  promise  to  eat  some  chicken  which  Mrs.  Sinclair  had 
ordered  for  supper,  he  would  acquiesce. — Very  Jcind  in  his 
anger!    Is  he  not? 

I  promised  that  I  would.  Can  I  be  more  preparatively 
condescending? — How  happy,  I'll  warrant,  if  I  may  meet 
him  in  a  Jcind  and  forgiving  humour ! 

I  hate  myself !  But  I  won't  be  insulted.  Indeed  I  won't, 
for  all  this. 


LETTER  XXIV. 

Miss  Clarissa  Ilarloive  to  Miss  Howe. 

Tuesday,  May  16. 

I  THINK  once  more  we  seem  to  be  in  a  kind  of  train;  but 
through  a  storm.    I  will  give  you  the  particulars. 

I  heard  him  in  the  dining-room  at  five  in  the  morning.    I 


88  THE   HISTORY    OF 

had  rested  very  ill,  and  was  up  too.  But  opened  not  my  door 
till  six:  when  Dorcas  brought  me  his  request  for  my  com- 
pany. 

He  approached  me,  and  taking  my  hand  as  I  entered  the 
dining-room,  I  went  not  to  bed,  Madam,  till  two,  said  he; 
yet  slept  not  a  wink.  For  God's  sake,  torment  me  not,  as 
you  have  done  for  a  week  past. 

He  paused.     I  was  silent. 

At  first,  proceeded  he,  I  thought  your  resentment  of  a 
curiosity,  in  which  I  had  been  disappointed,  could  not  be 
deep;  and  that  it  would  go  off  of  itself.  But  when  I  found 
it  was  to  be  kept  up  till  you  knew  the  success  of  some  new 
overtures  which  you  had  made,  and  which,  complied  with, 
might  have  deprived  me  of  you  for  ever,  how,  Madam,  could 
I  support  myself  under  the  thoughts  of  having,  with  such  a 
union  of  interests,  made  so  little  impression  upon  your  mind 
in  my  favour? 

He  paused  again.    I  was  silent.    He  went  on. 

1  acknowledge  that  I  have  a  proud  heart.  Madam.  I  can- 
not but  hope  for  some  instances  of  previous  and  preferable 
favour  from  the  lady  I  am  ambitious  to  call  mine;  and  that 
her  choice  of  me  should  not  appear,  not  flagrantly  appear, 
directed  by  the  perverseness  of  her  selfish  persecutors,  who 
are  my  irreconcilable  enemies. 

More  to  the  same  purpose  he  said.  You  know,  my  dear, 
the  room  he  had  given  me  to  recriminate  upon  him  in  twenty 
instances.     I  did  not  spare  him. 

Every  one  of  these  instances,  said  I  (after  I  had  enume- 
rated them)  convinces  me  of  your  pride  indeed,  sir,  but  not 
of  your  merit.  T  confess  that  I  have  as  much  pride  as  you 
can  have,  although  I  hope  it  is  of  another  kind  than  that 
you  so  readily  avow.  But  if,  sir,  you  have  the  least  mixture 
in  yours  of  that  pride  which  may  be  expected,  and  thought 
laudable,  in  a  man  of  your  birth,  alliances,  and  fortune,  you 
should  rather  wish,  I  will  presume  to  say,  to  promote  what 
you  call  pride,  than  either  to  suppress  it,  or  to  regret  that 
T  have  it.  It  is  this,  my  acknowledged  pride,  proceeded  I, 
tliat  induces  me  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  think  it  beneath  m.e 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  89 

to  disown  what  have  been  my  motives  for  declining,  for  some 
days  past,  any  conversation  witli  you,  or  visit  from  Mr,  Men- 
nell,  that  might  lead  to  points  out  of  my  power  to  determine 
upon  until  I  heard  from  my  uncle  Harlowe;  whom  I  con- 
fess I  have  caused  to  be  sounded,  whether  I  might  be  fa- 
voured with  his  interest  to  obtain  for  me  a  reconciliation 
with  my  friends,  upon  terms  which  I  had  caused  to  be  pro- 
posed. 

I  know  not,  said  he,  and  suppose  must  not  presume  to  ask, 
what  those  terms  were.  But  I  can  but  too  well  guess  at 
them;  and  that  I  was  to  have  been  the  preliminary  sacrifice. 
But  you  must  allow  me.  Madam,  to  say,  that  as  much  as  I 
admire  the  nobleness  of  your  sentiments  in  general,  and  in 
particular  that  laudable  pride  which  you  have  spoken  of,  I 
wish  that  I  could  compliment  you  with  such  a  uniformity 
in  it,  as  had  set  you  as  much  above  all  submission  to  minds 
implacable  and  unreasonable  (I  hope  I  may,  without  offence, 
say  that  your  brother's  and  sister's  are  such),  as  it  has  above 
all  favour  and  condescension  to  me. 

Duty  and  nature,  sir,  call  upon  me  to  make  the  submis- 
sions you  speak  of :  there  is  a  father,  there  is  a  mother,  there 
are  uncles  in  the  one  case,  to  justify  and  demand  those  sub- 
missions. What,  pray,  sir,  can  be  pleaded  for  the  condescen- 
sion, as  you  call  it?  Will  you  say  your  merits,  either  with 
regard  to  them,  or  to  myself,  may? 

This,  Madam,  to  be  said,  after  the  persecutions  of  those 
relations !  After  what  you  have  suffered !  After  what  you 
have  made  me  hope!  lict  me,  my  dearest  creature,  ask  you 
(we  have  been  talking  of  pride),  What  sort  of  pride  must 
Ms  be,  which  can  dispense  with  inclination  and  preference 
in  the  lady  whom  he  adores? — What  must  be  that  love 

Love,  sir!  who  talks  of  love? — Was  not  merit  the  thing 
we  were  talking  of? — Have  I  ever  professed,  have  I  ever  re- 
quired of  you  professions  of  a  passion  of  that  nature? — But 
there  is  no  end  of  these  debatings ;  each  so  faultless,  each  so 
full  of  self 

I  do  not  think  myself  faultless.  Madam : — ^but 


But  what,  sir! — Would  you  ever  more  argue  with  me,  as 


90  THE   HISTORY    OF 

if  you  were  a  child  ? — Seeking  palliations,  and  making  prom- 
ises?— Promises  of  what,  sir?  Of  being  in  future  the  man 
it  is  a  shame  a  gentleman  is  not? — Of  being  the  man 

Good  God!  interrupted  he,  with  eyes  lifted  up,  if  thoa 
wert  to  be  thus  severe 

Well,  well,  sir !  [impatiently]  I  need  only  to  observe,  that 
all  this  vast  difference  in  sentiment  shows  how  unpaired  our 
minds  are — so  let  us 

Let  us  what,  Madam ! — My  soul  is  rising  into  tumults ! 
And  he  looked  so  wildly  that  I  was  a  good  deal  terrified. — 
Let  us  what.  Madam ! 

I  was,  however,  resolved  not  to  desert  myself. — Why,  sir! 
let  us  resolve  to  quit  every  regard  for  each  other. — Nay, 
flame  not  out — I  am  a  poor  weak-minded  creature  in  some 
things :  but  where  what  I  should  he,  or  not  deserve  to  live, 
if  I  am  not  is  in  the  question,  I  have  a  great  and  invincible 
spirit,  or  my  own  conceit  betrays  me — let  us  resolve  to  quit 
every  regard  for  each  other  that  is  more  than  civil.  This 
you  may  depend  upon :  I  will  never  marry  any  other  man.  I 
have  seen  enough  of  your  sex;  at  least  of  you. — A  single  life 
shall  ever  be  my  choice:  while  I  will  leave  you  at  liberty  to 
pursue  your  own. 

Indifference,  worse  than  indifference !  said  he,  in  a  pas- 
sion  

Interrupting  him — Indifference  let  it  be — you  have  not 
(in  my  opinion  at  least)  deserved  that  it  should  be  other:  if 
you  have  in  your  own,  you  have  cause  (at  least  your  pride 
has)  to  hate  me  for  misjudging  you. 

Dearest,  dearest  creature !  snatching  my  hand  with  fierce- 
ness, let  me  beseech  you  to  be  uniformly  noble !  Civil  re- 
gards. Madam! — Civil  regards! — Can  you  so  expect  to  nar- 
row and  confine  such  a  passion  as  mine? 

Such  a  passion  as  yours,  Mr.  Lovelace,  deserves  to  be  nar- 
rowed and  confined.  It  is  either  the  passion  you  do  not  think 
it,  or  I  do  not.  I  question  whether  your  mind  is  capable  of 
being  so  narrowed  and  so  widened,  as  is  necessary  to  make 
it  be  what  I  wish  it  to  be.  Lift  up  your  hands  and  your 
eyes,  sir,  in  silent  wonder,  if  you  please;  but  what  does  that 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  91 

wonder  express^  what  does  it  convince  me  of,  but  that  we  are 
not  born  for  one  another. 

By  my  soul,  said  he,  and  grasped  my  hand  with  an  eager- 
ness that  hurt  it,  we  were  born  for  one  another:  you  must 
be  mine — ^you  shall  be  mine  [and  put  his  other  hand  round 
me]  although  my  damnation  were  to  be  the  purchase ! 

1  was  still  more  terrified — let  me  leave  you,  Mr.  Lovelace, 
said  I ;  or  do  you  be  gone  from  me.  Is  the  passion  you  boast 
of  to  be  thus  shockingly  demonstrated? 

You  must  not  go.  Madam! — You  must  not  leave  me  in 
anger 


I  will  return — I  will  return — when  you  can  be  less  vio- 
lent— less  shocking. 

And  he  let  me  go. 

The  man  quite  frighted  me;  insomuch,  that  when  I  got 
into  my  chamber,  I  found  a  sudden  flow  of  tears  a  great  re- 
lief to  me. 

In  half  an  hour,  he  sent  a  little  billet,  expressing  his  con- 
cern for  the  vehemence  of  his  behaviour,  and  prayed  to  see 
me. 

I  went.    Because  I  could  not  help  myself,  I  went. 

He  was  full  of  his  excuses — Oh,  my  dear,  what  would  you, 
even  you,  do  with  such  a  man  as  this:  and  in  my  situa- 
tion? 

It  was  very  possible  for  him  now,  he  said,  to  account  for 
the  workings  of  a  beginning  phrensy.  For  his  part,  he  was 
near  distraction.  All  last  week  to  suffer  as  he  had  suffered; 
and  now  to  talk  of  civil  regards  only,  when  he  had  hoped, 
from  the  nobleness  of  my  mind 

Hope  what  you  will,  interrupted  I,  I  must  insist  upon  it, 
that  our  minds  are  by  no  means  suited  to  each  other.  You 
have  brought  me  into  difficulties.  I  am  deserted  by  every 
friend  but  Miss  Howe.  My  true  sentiments  I  will  not  con- 
ceal— it  is  against  my  will  that  I  must  submit  to  owe  pro- 
tection from  a  brother's  projects,  which  Miss  Howe  thinks 
are  not  given  over,  to  you  who  have  brought  me  into  these 
straights:  not  with  my  own  concurrence  brought  me  into 
them;  remember  that 


92  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

I  do  remember  that,  Madam! — So  often  reminded,  how 
can  I  forget  it? 

Yet  I  will  owe  to  you  this  protection,  if  it  be  necessary, 
in  the  earnest  hope  that  you  will  shun,  rather  than  seek 
miscliief,  if  any  further  inquiry  after  me  be  made.  But 
what  hinders  you  from  leaving  me? — Cannot  I  send  to  you? 
The  widow  Fretchville,  it  is  plain,  knows  not  her  own  mind : 
the  people  here  indeed  are  more  civil  to  me  every  day  than 
other :  but  I  had  rather  have  lodgings  more  agreeable  to  my 
circumstances.  I  best  laiow  what  will  suit  them;  and  am 
resolved  not  to  be  obliged  to  anybody.  If  you  leave  me,  I 
will  privately  retire  to  some  one  of  the  neighbouring  villages, 
and  there  wait  my  cousin  Morden's  arrival  with  patience. 

I  presume,  Madam,  replied  he,  from  what  you  have  said, 
that  your  application  to  Harlowe  Place  has  proved  unsuc- 
cessful; I  therefore  hope  that  you  will  now  give  me  leave  to 
mention  the  terms  in  the  nature  of  settlements,  which  I 
have  long  intended  to  propose  to  you;  and  which  having  till 
now  delayed  to  do,  through  accidents  not  proceeding  from 
myself,  I  had  thoughts  of  urging  to  you  the  moment  you 
entered  upon  your  new  house;  and  upon  your  finding  your- 
self as  independent  in  appearance  as  you  are  in  fact.  Permit 
me.  Madam,  to  propose  these  matters  to  you — not  with  an 
expectation  of  your  immediate  answer;  but  for  your  consid- 
eration. 

Were  not  hesitation,  a  self-felt  glow,  a  downcast  eye,  en- 
couragement more  than  enough?  and  yet  you  will  observe  (as 
I  now  do  on  recollection)  that  he  was  in  no  great  hurry  to 
solicit  for  a  day;  since  he  had  no  thoughts  of  proposing  set- 
tlements till  T  had  got  into  my  new  house;  and  now  in  his 
great  complaisance  to  me,  he  desired  leave  to  propose  his 
terms,  not  with  an  expectation  of  my  immediate  answer;  but 
for  my  consideration  only. — Yet,  my  dear,  your  advice  was 
too  much  in  my  head  at  this  time.    I  hesitated. 

He  urged  on  upon  my  silence:  he  would  call  God  to  wit- 
ness to  the  justice,  nay  to  the  generosity,  of  his  intentions 
to  me,  if  I  would  be  so  good  as  to  hear  what  he  had  to  pro- 
pose to  me  as  to  settlements. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  93 

Could  not  the  man  have  fallen  into  the  snhject  without  this 
parade?  Many  a  point,  you  know,  is  refused,  and  ought  to 
be  refused,  if  leave  be  asked  to  introduce  it;  and  when  once 
refused  must  in  honour  be  adhered  to — whereas,  had  it  been 
slid  in  upon  one,  as  I  may  say,  it  might  have  merited  further 
consideration.  If  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Lovelace  knows  not 
this,  who  should? 

But  he  seemed  to  thinlc  it  enough  that  he  had  asked  my 
leo.ve  to  propose  his  settlements.  He  took  no  advantage  of 
my  silence,  as  I  presume  men  as  modest  as  Mr.  Lovelace 
would  have  done  in  a  like  case:  yet,  gazing  in  my  face  very 
confidently,  and  seeming  to  expect  my  answer,  I  thought 
inyself  obliged  to  give  the  subject  a  more  diffuse  turn,  in 
order  to  save  myself  the  mortification  of  appearing  too  ready 
in  my  compliance,  after  such  a  distance  as  had  been  between 
us;  and  yet  (in  pursuance  of  your  advice)  I  was  willing  to 
avoid  the  necessity  of  giving  him  such  a  repulse  as  might 
again  throw  us  out  of  the  course — a  cruel  alternative  to  be 
reduced  to! 

You  talk  of  generosity,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  I ;  and  you  talk 
of  justice;  perhaps  without  having  considered  the  force  of 
the  words,  in  the  sense  you  use  them  on  this  occasion. — Let 
me  tell  you  what  generosity  is,  in  my  sense  of  the  word — 
TRUE  GENEROSITY  is  not  confined  to  pecuniary  instances:  it 
is  more  than  politeness :  it  is  more  than  good  faith :  it  is  more 
than  honour;  it  is  more  than  justice:  since  all  these  are  but 
duties,  and  what  a  worthy  mind  cannot  dispense  with.  But 
TRUE  GENEROSITY  is  grcatncss  of  soul.  Tt  incites  us  to  do 
more  by  a  fellow-creature  than  can  be  strictly  required  of  us. 
It  obliges  us  to  hasten  to  the  relief  of  an  object  that  wants 
relief;  anticipating  even  such  a  one's  hope  or  expectation. 
Generosity,  sir,  will  not  surely  permit  a  worthy  mind  to  doubt 
of  its  honourable  and  beneficent  intentions:  much  less  will  it 
allow  itself  to  shock,  to  offend  any  one;  and  least  of  all,  a 
person  thrown  by  adversity,  mishap,  or  accident,  into  its  pro- 
tection. 

What  an  opportunity  had  he  to  clear  his  intentions  had 
he   been    so   disposed,   from   the    latter  part   of   this  home 


94  THE   HISTORY    OF 

observation! — but  he  ran  away  with  the  first,  and  kept  to 
that. 

Admirably  defined !  he  said — but  who,  at  this  rate,  Madam, 
can  be  said  to  be  generous  to  you? — Your  generosity  1  im- 
plore; while  justice,  as  it  must  be  my  sole  merit,  shall  be  my 
aim.  Never  was  there  a  woman  of  such  nice  and  delicate 
sentiments ! 

It  is  a  reflection  upon  yourself,  sir,  and  upon  the  com- 
pany you  have  kept,  if  you  think  these  notions  either  nice  or 
delicate.  Thousands  of  my  sex  are  more  nice  than  I;  for 
they  would  have  avoided  the  devious  path  I  have  been  sur- 
prised into;  the  consequences  of  which  surprise  have  laid 
me  under  the  sad  necessity  of  telling  a  man,  who  has  not  deli- 
cacy enough  to  enter  into  those  parts  of  the  female  character 
which  are  its  glory  and  distitiction,  what  true  generosity  is. 

His  divine  monitress,  he  called  me.  He  would  endeavour 
to  form  his  manners  (as  he  had  often  promised)  by  my 
example.  But  he  hoped  I  would  now  permit  him  to  men- 
tion briefly  the  justice  he  proposed  to  do  me,  in  the  terms  of 
the  settlements;  a  subject  so  proper,  before  now,  to  have  been 
entered  upon;  and  which  would  have  been  entered  upon  long 
ago,  had  not  my  frequent  displeasure  [I  am  ever  in  fault,  my 
dear  I]  taken  from  him  the  opportunity  he  had  often  wished 
for:  but  now,  having  ventured  to  lay  hold  of  this,  nothing 
should  divert  him  from  improving  it. 

I  have  no  spirits  just  now,  sir,  to  attend  to  such  weighty 
points.  What  you  have  a  mind  to  propose,  write  to  me :  and 
I  shall  know  what  answer  to  return.  Only  one  thing  let  me 
remind  you  of,  that  if  you  touch  upon  any  subject,  in  which 
my  father  has  a  concern,  I  shall  judge  by  your  treatment  of 
the  father  what  value  you  have  for  the  daughter. 

He  looked  as  if  he  would  choose  rather  to  speak  than  write : 
but  had  he  said  so,  I  had  a  severe  return  to  have  made  upon 
him;  as  possibly  he  might  see  by  my  looks. 

In  this  way  are  we  now :  a  sort  of  calm,  as  I  said,  succeed- 
ing a  storm.  What  may  happen  next,  whether  a  storm  or  a 
calm,  with  such  a  spirit  as  I  have  to  deal  with,  who  can  tell  ? 


CLARISSA    HAKLOWE.  95 

But  be  that  as  it  will,  I  think,  my  dear,  I  am  not  meanly 
off:  and  that  is  a  great  point  with  me;  and  which  I  know 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear:  if  it  were  only,  that  I  can  see  this 
man  without  losing  any  of  that  dignit}'  [What  other  word 
can  I  use,  speaking  of  myself,  that  betokens  decency^  and  not 
arrogance  ?'\  which  is  so  necessary  to  enable  me  to  look  up, 
or  rather  with  the  mind's  eye,  I  may  say,  to  look  dow7i  upon 
a  man  of  this  man's  cast. 

Although  circumstances  have  so  offered  that  I  could  not 
take  your  advice  as  to  the  manner  of  dealing  with  him;  yet 
you  gave  me  so  much  courage  by  it,  as  has  enabled  me  to 
conduct  things  to  this  issue ;  as  well  as  determined  me  against 
leaving  him:  which,  before,  I  was  thinking  to  do,  at  all  ad- 
ventures. Wliether,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  I  should  have 
done  so,  or  not,  I  cannot  say,  because  it  would  have  depended 
upon  his  behaviour  at  the  time. 

But  let  his  behaviour  be  what  it  will,  1  am  afraid  (with 
you),  that  should  anything  offer  at  last  to  oblige  me  to  leave 
him,  I  shall  not  mend  my  situation  in  the  world's  eye ;  but 
the  contrar}^  And  yet  I  will  not  be  treated  by  him  with  in- 
dignity while  I  have  any  power  to  help  myself. 

You,  my  dear,  have  accused  me  of  having  modestied  away, 
as  you  phrase  it,  several  opportunities  of  being — being  what, 
my  dear? — Why,  the  wife  of  a  libertine!  and  what  a  liber- 
tine and  his  wife  are  my  cousin  Morden's  letter  tells  us. — 
Let  me  here,  once  for  all,  endeavour  to  account  for  the  mo- 
tives of  behaviour  to  this  man,  and  for  the  principles  I  have 
proceeded  upon,  as  they  appear  to  me  upon  a  close  self-exam- 
ination. 

Be  pleased  then  to  allow  me  to  think  that  my  motives  on 
this  occasion  arise  not  altogether  from  maidenly  niceness; 
nor  yet  from  the  apprehension  of  what  my  present  tormenter, 
-,/  and  future  husband,  may  think  of  a  precipitate  compliance, 
on  such  a  disagreeable  behaviour  as  his :  but  they  arise  prin- 
cipally from  what  offers  to  my  own  heart;  respecting,  as  I 
may  say,  its  own  rectitude,  its  own  judgment  of  the  fit  and 
the  unfit;  as  I  would,  without  study,  answer  for  myself  to 
myself,  in  the  first  place;  to  him,  and  to  the  world,  in  t!ie 


96  THE   HISTORY   OF 

second  only.  Principles  that  are  in  my  mind;  that  I  found 
there;  implanted,  no  doubt,  by  the  first  gracious  Planter: 
which  therefore  impel  me,  as  I  may  say,  to  act  up  to  them, 
that  thereby  I  may,  to  the  best  of  my  judgment,  be  enabled 
to  comport  myself  worthily  in  both  states  (the  single  and 
the  married),  let  others  act  as  they  will  by  me. 

I  hope,  my  dear,  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  and  instead  of 
setting  about  rectifying  what  is  amiss  in  my  heart,  endeav- 
our to  find  excuses  for  habits  and  peculiarities  which  I  am 
unwilling  to  cast  off  or  overcome.  The  heart  is  very  deceit- 
ful :  do  you,  my  dear  friend,  lay  mine  open  [but  surely  it  is 
always  open  before  you!],  and  spare  me  not,  if  you  think  it 
culpable. 

This  observation  once  for  all,  as  I  said,  I  thought  proper 
to  make,  to  convince  you  that,  to  the  best  of  my  judgment, 
my  errors,  in  matters  as  well  of  lesser  moment  as  of  greater, 
shall  rather  be  the  fault  of  my  judgment  than  of  my  will. 

I  am,  my  dearest  friend. 

Your  ever  obliged 

Clarissa  Haelowe. 


LETTER  XXV. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Tuesday  Night,  May  16. 

Mr.  Lovelace  has  sent  me,  by  Dorcas,  his  proposals,  as 
follow : 

'  To  spare  a  delicacy  so  extreme,  and  to  obey  you,  I  write : 
'  and  the  rather  that  you  may  communicate  this  paper  to  Miss 

*  Howe,  who  may  consult  any  of  her  friends  you  shall  think 
'  proper  to  have  intrusted  on  this  occasion.  I  say,  intrusted; 
'  because,  as  you  know,  I  have  given  it  out  to  several  persons 

*  that  we  are  actually  married. 

'  In  the  first  place,  Madam,  I  offer  to  settle  upon  you,  by 

*  way  of  jointure,  your  whole  estate :  and  moreover  to  vest  in 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  97 

trustees  such  a  part  of  mine  in  Lancashire,  as  shall  produce 
a  clear  four  hundred  pounds  a  year,  to  be  paid  to  your  sole 
and  separate  use  quarterly. 

'  My  own  estate  is  a  clear  not  nominal  2000Z.  per  annum. 
Lord  M.  proposes  to  give  me  possession  either  of  that  which 
he  has  in  Lancashire  [to  which,  by  the  way,  I  think  I  have 
a  better  title  than  he  has  himself],  or  that  we  call  The  Lawn, 
in  Hertfordshire,  upon  my  nuptials  with  a  lady  whom  he  so 
greatly  admires;  and  to  make  that  I  shall  choose  a  clear 
lOOOZ.  per  annum. 

'  My  too  great  contempt  of  censure  has  subjected  me  to 
much  slander.  It  may  not  therefore  be  improper  to  assure 
you,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman,  that  no  part  of  my  estate 
was  ever  mortgaged:  and  that  although  I  lived  very  ex- 
pensively abroad,  and  made  large  draughts,  yet  that  Mid- 
simimer-day  next  will  discharge  all  that  I  owe  in  the  world. 
My  notions  are  not  all  bad  ones.  I  have  been  thought,  in 
pecuniary  cases,  generous.  It  would  have  deserved  another 
name,  had  I  not  first  been  just. 

'  If,  as  your  own  estate  is  at  present  in  your  father's  hands, 
you  rather  choose  that  I  should  make  a  jointure  out  of 
mine,  tantamount  to  yours,  be  it  what  it  will,  it  shall  be 
done.  I  will  engage  Lord  M.  to  write  to  you,  what  he  pro- 
poses to  do  on  the  happy  occasion :  not  as  your  desire  or  ex- 
pectation, but  to  demonstrate  that  no  advantage  is  intended 
to  be  taken  of  the  situation  you  are  in  with  your  own  family. 

'  To  show  the  beloved  daughter  the  consideration  I  have 
for  her,  I  will  consent  that  she  shall  prescribe  the  terms  of 
agreement  in  relation  to  the  large  sums,  which  must  be  in 
her  father's  hands,  arising  from  her  grandfather's  estate.  I 
have  no  doubt  but  he  will  be  put  upon  making  large  de- 
mands upon  you.  All  those  it  shall  be  in  your  power  to 
comply  with,  for  the  sake  of  your  own  peace.  And  the  re- 
mainder shall  be  paid  into  your  hands,  and  be  entirely  at 
your  disposal,  as  a  fund  to  support  those  charitable  dona- 
tions, which  I  have  heard  you  so  famed  for  out  of  your 
family,  and  for  which  you  have  been  so  greatly  reflected 
upon  in  it. 


98  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  As  to  clothes,  jewels,  and  the  like,  against  the  time  you 

*  shall  choose  to  make  your  appearance,  it  will  be  my  pride 
'  that  you  shall  not  be  beholden  for  such  of  these,  as  shall  be 
'  answerable  to  the  rank  of  both,  to  those  who  have  had  the 
'  stupid  folly  to  renounce  a  daughter  they  deserved  not.  You 
'  must  excuse  me.  Madam :  you  would  mistrust  my  sincerity 
'  in  the  rest,  could  I  speak  of  these  people  without  asperity, 
'  though  so  nearly  related  to  you. 

'  These,  Madam,  are  my  proposals.  They  are  such  as  I 
'  always  designed  to  make,  whenever  you  would  permit  me 
'  to  enter  into  the  delightful  subject.  But  you  have  been  so 
'  determined  to  try  every  method  for  reconciling  yourself  to 
'your  relations,  even  by  giving  me  absolutely  up  for  ever, 
'  that  you  have  seemed  to  think  it  but  justice  to  keep  me  at 
'a  distance,  till  the  event  of  that  your  predominant  hope 

*  could  be  seen.  It  is  7iow  seen! — and  although  I  have  been, 
'  and  perhaps  still  am,  ready  to  regret  the  want  of  that  pref- 
'erence  I  wished  for  from  you  as  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe, 

*  yet  I  am  sure,  as  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Lovelace,  I  shall  be 
*more  ready  to  adore  than  to  blame  you  for  the  pangs  you 
*have  given  to  a  heart,  the  generosity,  or  rather  justice  of 

*  which,  my  implacable  enemies  have  taught  you  to  doubt: 
'  and  this  still  the  readier,  as  I  am  persuaded  that  those  pangs 
'never  would  have  been  given  by  a  mind  so  noble,  had  not 
'the  doubt  been  entertained  (perhaps  with  too  great  an  ap- 
'  pearance  of  reason)  ;  and  as  I  hope  I  shall  have  it  to  re- 
'  fleet,  that  the  moment  the  doubt  shall  be  overcome,  the  in- 
'  difference  will  cease. 

'I  will  only  add,  that  if  I  have  omitted  anything  that 
'would  have  given  you  farther  satisfaction;  or  if  the  above 
'  terms  be  short  of  what  you  would  wish ;  you  will  be  pleased 
'  to  supply  them  as  you  think  fit.  And  when  I  know  your 
'plensure,  I  will  instantly  order  articles  to  be  drawn  up  con- 
'  f ormably,  that  nothing  in  my  power  may  be  wanting  to  make 
'you  happy. 

'  You  will  now,  dearest  Madam,  judge  how  far  all  the  rest 
'  depends  upon  yourself.' 

You  see,  my  dear,  what  he  offers.     Y^ou  see  it  is  all  my 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  99 

fault,  that  lie  has  not  made  these  offers  before.  I  am  a 
strange  creature ! — to  be  to  blame  in  everything,  and  to  every- 
body; yet  neither  intend  the  ill  at  the  time,  nor  know  it  to 
be  the  ill  too  late,  or  so  nearly  too  late,  that  I  must  give  up 
all  the  delicacy  he  talks  of,  to  compound  for  my  fault ! 

I  shall  now  judge  how  far  the  rest  depends  upon  myself! 
So  coldly  concludes  he  such  warm,  and,  in  the  main,  unob- 
jectionable proposals.  Would  you  not,  as  you  read,  have  sup- 
posed that  the  paper  vrould  conclude  with  the  most  earnest 
demand  of  a  day? — I  own  I  had  that  expectation  so  strong, 
resulting  naturally,  as  I  may  say,  from  the  premises,  that 
without  studying  for  dissatisfaction,  I  could  not  help  being 
dissatisfied  when  I  came  to  the  conclusion. 

But  you  say  there  is  no  help.  I  must  perhaps  make  further 
sacrifices.  All  delicacy  it  seems  is  to  be  at  an  end  with  me ! 
— but,  if  so,  this  man  knows  not  what  every  wise  man  knows, 
that  prudence,  and  virtue,  and  delicacy  of  mind  in  a  wife, 
do  the  husband  more  real  honour  in  the  eye  of  the  world, 
than  the  same  qualities  (were  she  destitute  of  them)  in  him- 
self, do  him :  as  the  tvant  of  them  in  her  does  him  more  dis- 
honour: for  are  not  the  wife's  errors  the  husband's  reproach? 
how  justly  his  reproach,  is  another  thing. 

I  will  consider  this  paper;  and  write  to  it,  if  I  am  able: 
for  it  seems  now,  all  the  rest  depends  iipon  myself. 


LETTER  XXVI. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Wednesday  Morning,  May  17. 

Mr.  Lovelace  would  fain  have  engaged  me  last  night. 
But  as  I  was  not  prepared  to  enter  upon  the  subject  of  his 
proposals  (intending  to  consider  them  maturely),  and  was 
not  highly  pleased  with  his  conclusion,  I  desired  to  be  ex- 
cused seeing  him  till  morning;  and  the  rather,  as  there  is 
hardly  any  getting  from  him  in  tolerable  time  over-night. 
Vol.  IV— 9. 


100  THE   HISTORY   OF 

Accordingly,  about  seven  o'clock  we  met  in  the  dining- 
room. 

I  find  he  was  full  of  expectation  that  I  should  meet 
him  with  a  very  favourable,  who  knows  but  with  a  thank- 
ful aspect?  and  I  immediately  found  by  his  sullen  coun- 
tenance, that  he  was  under  no  small  disappointment  that  I 
did  not. 

My  dearest  love,  are  you  well?  Why  look  you  so  solemn 
upon  me?  Will  your  indifference  never  be  over?  If  I  have 
proposed  terms  in  any  respect  short  of  your  expectation 

I  told  him  that  he  had  very  considerately  mentioned  my 
showing  his  proposals  to  Miss  Howe;  and  as  I  should  have  a 
speedy  opportunity  to  send  them  to  her  by  Collins,  I  desired 
to  suspend  any  talk  upon  that  subject  till  I  had  her  opinion 
upon  them. 

Good  God ! — If  there  were  but  the  least  loophole !  the  least 
room  for  delay ! — But  he  was  writing  a  letter  to  Lord  M.  to 
give  him  an  account  of  his  situation  with  me,  and  could  not 
finish  it  so  satisfactorily,  either  to  my  Lord  or  to  him- 
self, as  if  I  would  condescend  to  say,  whether  the  terms  he 
had  proposed  were  acceptable  or  not. 

Thus  far,  I  told  him,  I  could  say,  that  my  principal  point 
was  peace  and  reconciliation  with  my  relations.  As  to  other 
matters,  the  gentleness  of  his  own  spirit  would  put  him  upon 
doing  more  for  me  than  I  should  ask,  or  expect.  Wherefore, 
if  all  he  had  to  write  about  was  to  know  what  Lord  M.  would 
do  on  my  account,  he  might  spare  himself  the  trouble,  for 
that  my  utmost  wishes,  as  to  myself,  were  much  more  easily 
gratified  than  he  perhaps  imagined. 

He  asked  me  then,  if  I  would  so  far  permit  him  to  touch 
upon  the  happy  day,  as  to  request  the  presence  of  Lord  M. 
on  the  occasion,  and  to  be  my  father? 

Father  had  a  sweet  and  venerable  sound  with  it,  I  said. 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  a  father  who  would  own  me ! 

Was  not  this  plain  speaking,  think  you,  my  dear?  Yet  it 
rather,  I  must  own,  appears  so  to  me  on  reflection,  than  was 
designed  freely  at  the  time.  For  I  then,  with  a  sigh  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart,  thought  of  my  own  father;  bitterly 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  101 

regretting  that  I  am  an  outcast  from  Mm  and  from  my 
mother. 

Mr.  Lovelace  I  thought  seemed  a  little  affected  at  the 
manner  of  my  speaking,  and  perhaps  at  the  sad  reflection. 

1  am  but  a  very  young  creature,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  I  [and 
wiped  my  eyes  as  I  turned  away  my  face],  although  you  have 
kindly,  and  in  love  to  tne,  introduced  so  much  sorrow  to  me 
already :  so  you  must  not  wonder  that  the  word  father  strikes 
so  sensibly  upon  the  heart  of  a  child  ever  dutiful  till  she 
knew  you,  and  whose  tender  years  still  require  the  paternal 
wing. 

He  turned  towards  the  window — [rejoice  with  me,  my 
dear,  since  I  seem  to  be  devoted  to  him,  that  the  man  is  not 
absolutely  impenetrable !]  His  emotion  was  visible ;  yet  he 
endeavoured  to  suppress  it.  Approaching  me  again;  again 
he  was  obliged  to  turn  from  me;  angelic  something,  he  said: 
but  then,  obtaining  a  heart  more  suitable  to  his  wish,  he  once 
more  approached  me. — For  his  ow^n  part,  he  said,  as  Lord  M. 
was  so  subject  to  the  gout,  he  was  afraid  that  the  compliment 
he  had  just  proposed  to  make  him,  might,  if  made,  occasion 
a  longer  suspension  than  he  could  bear  to  think  of:  and  if 
it  did,  it  would  vex  him  to  the  heart  that  he  had  made  it. 

I  could  not  say  a  single  word  to  this,  you  know,  my  dear. 
But  you  will  guess  at  my  thoughts  of  what  he  said — so  much 
passionate  love,  lip-deep!  so  prudent,  and  so  dutifully  pa- 
tient at  heart  to  a  relation  he  had  till  now  so  undutifully 
despised. — Why,  why,  am  I  thrown  upon  such  a  man, 
thought  I ! 

He  hesitated,  as  if  contending  with  himself;  and  after 
taking  a  turn  or  two  about  the  room,  he  was  at  a  great  loss 
what  to  determine  upon,  he  said,  because  he  had  not  the 
honour  of  knowing  when  he  was  to  be  made  the  happiest  of 
men. — Would  to  God  it  might  that  very  instant  be  resolved 
upon! 

He  stopped  a  moment  or  two,  staring,  in  his  usual  confi- 
dent way,  in  my  downcast  face.  [Did  I  not,  oh,  my  beloved 
friend,  think  you,  want  a  father  or  a  mother  just  then?] 
But  if  he  could  not,  so  soon  as  he  wished,  procure  my  con- 


102  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

sent  to  a  day ;  in  that  case,  he  thought  the  compliment  might 
as  well  be  made  to  Lord  M.  as  not  [See,  my  dear!],  since 
the  settlements  might  be  drawn  and  engrossed  in  the  inter- 
venient  time,  which  would  pacify  his  impatience,  as  no  time 
would  he  lost. 

You  will  suppose  how  I  was  affected  by  this  speech,  by 
repeating  the  substance  of  what  he  said  upon  it;  as  follows. 

But,  by  his  soul,  he  knew  not,  so  much  was  I  upon  the  re- 
serve, and  so  much  latent  meaning  did  my  eye  import, 
whether,  when  he  most  hoped  to  please  me,  he  was  not  far- 
thest from  doing  so.  Would  I  vouchsafe  to  say,  whether  I 
approved  of  his  compliment  to  Lord  M.  or  not? 

To  leave  it  to  me,  to  choose  whether  the  speedy  day  he 
ought  to  have  urged  for  with  earnestness,  should  be  acceler- 
ated or  suspended ! — Miss  Howe,  thought  I,  at  that  moment, 
says,  I  must  not  run  away  from  this  man ! 

To  be  sure,  Mr.  Lovelace,  if  this  matter  be  ever  to  he,  it 
must  be  agreeable  to  me  to  have  the  full  approbation  of  one 
side,  since  I  cannot  have  that  of  the  other. 

If  this  matter  he  ever  to  he!  Good  God!  what  words  are 
these  at  this  time  of  day !  and  full  approbation  of  one  side ! 
Why  that  word  approbation?  when  the  greatest  pride  of  all 
my  family  is  that  of  having  the  honour  of  so  dear  a  creature 
for  their  relation?  Would  to  heaven,  my  dearest  life,  added 
he,  that,  without  complimenting  anybody,  tomorrow  might 
be  the  happiest  day  of  my  life! — What  say  you,  my  angel? 
with  a  trembling  impatience,  that  seemed  not  affected. — 
What  say  you  for  to-morrow  ? 

It  was  likely,  my  dear,  I  could  say  much  to  it,  or  name 
another  day,  had  I  been  disposed  to  the  latter,  with  such  a 
hinted  delay  from  him. 

I  was  silent. 

Next  day.  Madam,  if  not  to-morrow? 

Had  he  given  me  time  to  answer,  it  could  not  have  been 
in  the  affirmative,  you  must  think — but,  in  the  same  breath, 
he  went  on — Or  the  day  after  that? — and  taking  both  my 
hands  in  his,  he  stared  me  into  a  half-confusion. — Would  you 
have  had  patience  with  him,  my  dear? 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  103 

No,  no,  said  I,  as  calmly  as  possible,  you  cannot  think 
that  1  should  imagine  there  can  be  reason  for  such  a  hurry. 
It  will  be  most  agreeable,  to  be  sure,  for  my  Lord  to  be  pres- 
ent. 

I  am  all  obedience  and  resignation,  returned  the  wretch, 
with  a  self-pluming  air,  as  if  he  had  acquiesced  to  a  proposal 
made  hy  me,  and  had  complimented  me  with  a  great  piece  of 
self-denial. 

Is  it  not  plain,  my  dear,  that  he  designs  to  vex  and  tease 
me  ?  Proud,  yet  mean  and  foolish  man,  if  so ! — But  you  say 
all  punctilio  is  at  an  end  with  me.  Why,  why,  will  he  take 
pains  to  make  a  heart  wrap  itself  up  in  reserve,  that  wishes 
only,  and  that  for  his  sake  as  well  as  my  own,  to  observe  due 
decorum  ? 

Modesty,  I  think,  required  of  me  that  it  should  pass  as  he 
had  put  it.  Did  it  not? — I  think  it  did.  Would  to  heaven 
— ^but  what  signifies  wishing? 

But  when  he  would  have  rewarded  himself,  as  he  had  here- 
tofore called  it,  for  this  self -supposed  concession,  with  a  kiss, 
I  repulsed  him  with  a  just  and  very  sincere  disdain. 

He  seemed  both  vexed  and  surprised,  as  one  who  had  made 
the  most  agreeable  proposals  and  concessions,  and  thought 
them  ungratefully  returned.  He  plainly  said,  that  he  thought 
our  situation  would  entitle  him  to  such  an  innocent  freedom : 
and  he  was  both  amazed  and  grieved  to  be  thus  scornfully 
repulsed. 

No  reply  could  be  made  by  me  on  such  a  subject. 

I  abruptly  broke  from  him.  I  recollect,  as  I  passed  by 
one  of  the  pier-glasses,  that  I  saw  in  it  his  clenched  hand  of- 
fered in  wrath  to  his  forehead:  the  words,  Indifference,  hy 
his  soul,  next  to  hatred,  I  heard  him  speak;  and  something 
of  ice  he  mentioned :  I  heard  not  what. 

Whether  he  intends  to  write  to  my  Lord,  or  Miss  Mon- 
tague, I  cannot  tell.  But  as  all  delicacy  ought  to  he  over 
with  me  now,  perhaps  I  am  to  blame  to  expect  it  from  a  man 
who  may  not  know  what  it  is.  If  he  does  not,  and  yet  thinks 
himself  very  polite,  and  intends  not  to  be  otherwise,  I  am 
rather  to  be  pitied,  than  he  to  be  censured. 


104  THE   HISTORY    OF 

And  after  all,  since  I  must  take  him  as  I  find  him,  I  must: 
that  is  to  say,  as  a  man  so  vain  and  so  accustomed  to  be  ad- 
mired, that,  not  being  conscious  of  internal  defect,  he  has 
taken  no  pains  lo  polish  more  than  his  outside:  and  as  his 
proposals  are  higher  than  my  expectations;  and  as,  in  his 
own  opinion,  he  has  a  great  deal  to  bear  from  me,  I  will  (no 
new  offence  preventing)  sit  down  to  answer  them;  and,  if 
possible,  in  terms  as  unobjectionable  to  him,  as  his  are  to 
me. 

But  after  all,  see  you  not,  my  dear,  more  and  more,  the  mis- 
match that  there  is  in  our  minds  ? 

However,  I  am  willing  to  compound  for  my  fault,  by  giv- 
ing up  (if  that  may  be  all  my  punishment)  the  expectation 
of  what  is  deemed  happiness  in  this  life,  with  such  a  husband 
as  I  fear  he  will  make.  In  short,  I  will  content  myself  to  be 
a  suffering  person  through  the  state  to  the  end  of  my  life — 
A  long  one  it  cannot  be ! 

This  may  qualify  him  (as  it  may  prove)  from  stings  of 
conscience  from  misbehaviour  to  a  first  wife,  to  be  a  more 
tolerable  one  to  a  second,  though  not  perhaps  a  better  deserv- 
ing one :  while  my  story,  to  all  who  shall  loiow  it,  will  afford 
these  instructions :  That  the  eye  is  a  traitor,  and  ought  ever 
to  he  mistrusted:  that  form  is  deceitful:  in  other  words;  that 
a  fine  person  is  seldom  paired  hy  a  fine  mind:  and  that  sound 
principle  and  a  good  heart,  are  the  only  hases  on  which  the 
hopes  of  a  happy  future,  either  with  respect  to  this  world  or 
the  other,  can  he  huilt. 

And  so  much  at  present  for  Mr.  Lovelace's  proposals:  of 
which  I  desire  your  opinion.* 

*  We  cannot  forbear  observing  in  this  place,  that  the  lady  has  been 
particularly  censured,  even  by  some  of  her  own  sex,  as  over-nice  in 
her  part  of  the  above  conversations:  but  surely  this  must  be  owing 
to  want  of  attention  to  the  circumstances  she  was  in,  and  to  her  char- 
acter, as  well  as  to  the  character  of  the  man  she  had  to  deal  with: 
for  although  she  could  not  be  supposed  to  know  so  much  of  his  de- 
signs as  the  reader  does  by  means  of  his  letters  to  Belford,  yet  she  was 
but  too  well  convinced  of  his  faulty  morals,  and  of  the  necessity  there 
was,  from  the  whole  of  his  behaviour  to  her,  to  keep  such  an  en- 
croacher,   as   she   frequently   calls  him,    at   a   distance.     In  Letter 


CLARISSA    EARLO^YE.  105 

[Four  letters  are  written  by  Mr.  Lovelace  from  the  date  of 
his  last,  giving  the  state  of  affairs  between  him  and  the  lady, 
pretty  much  the  same  as  in  hers  in  the  same  period,  allow- 
ing for  the  humour  in  his,  and  for  his  resentments,  expressed 
with  vehemence  on  her  resolution  to  leave  him,  if  her  friends 
could  be  brought  to  be  reconciled  to  her. — A  few  extracts 
from  them  will  be  only  given.] 

What,  says  he,  might  have  become  of  me,  and  of  my  pro- 
jects, had  not  her  father,  and  the  rest  of  the  implacables, 
stood  my  friends? 

[After  violent  threatenings  of  revenge,  he  says,] 

'Tis  plain  she  would  have  given  me  up  for  ever :  nor  should 
I  have  been  able  to  prevent  her  abandoning  of  me,  unless  I 
had  torn  up  the  tree  by  the  roots  to  come  at  the  fruit;  which 
I  hope  still  to  bring  down  by  a  gentle  shake  or  tivo,  if  I  can 
but  have  patience  to  stay  the  ripening  season. 

[Thus  triumphing  in  his  unpolite  cruelty,  he  says,] 

XXXI.  of  Vol.  III.  the  reader  will  see,  that  upon  some  favourable 
appearances  she  blames  herself  for  her  readiness  to  suspect  him. 
But  his  character,  his  principles,  said   she,   are  so  faulty! — He  is 

so  light,  so  vain,  so  various, Then,  my  dear,  I  have  no  guardian 

now;  no  father,  no  mother!  nothing  "but  God  and  my  own  vigilance 
to  depend  upon.  In  Letter  VII.  of  Vol.  III.  Must  I  not  with  such 
a  man,  says  she,  be  v)anting  to  myself,  were  I  not  jealous  and  vigi- 
lant? 

By  this  time  the  reader  will  see  that  she  had  still  greater  reason 
for  her  jealousy  and  vigilance.  And  Lovelace  will  tell  the  sex, 
as  he  does  in  Letter  LIX.  of  this  volume,  that  the  woman  who  re- 
sents not  initiatory  freedoms,  must  he  lost.  Love  is  an  encroacher, 
says  he:  love  never  goes  backward.  Nothing  but  the  highest  act  of 
love  can  satisfy  an  indulged  love. 

But  the  reader  perhaps  is  too  apt  to  form  a  judgment  of  Cla- 
rissa's conduct  in  critical  cases  by  Lovelace's  complaints  of  her  cold- 
ness; not  considering  his  views  upon  her;  and  that  she  is  proposed 
as  an  example;  and  therefore  in  her  trials  and  distresses  must  not 
be  allowed  to  dispense  with  those  rules  which  perhaps  some  others 
of  her  sex,  in  her  delicate  situation,  would  not  have  thought  them- 
selves so  strictly  bound  to  observe;  although,  if  she  had  not  ob- 
served them,  a  Lovelace  would  have  carried  all  his  points. 


106  THE   HISTORY   OF 

After  her  haughty  treatment  of  me,  I  am  resolved  she 
shall  speak  out.  There  are  a  thousand  beauties  to  be  dis- 
covered in  the  face,  in  the  accent,  in  the  'bush-heating  hesita- 
tions of  a  woman  who  is  earnest  about  a  subject  which  she 
wants  to  introduce,  yet  knows  not  how.  Silly  fellows,  call- 
ing themselves  generous  ones,  would  value  themselves  for 
sparing  a  lady's  confusion :  but  they  are  silly  fellows  indeed ; 
and  rob  themselves  of  prodigious  pleasure  by  their  forward- 
ness ;  and  at  the  same  time  deprive  her  of  displaying  a  world 
of  charms,  which  only  can  be  manifested  on  these  occasions. 

I'll  tell  thee  beforehand,  how  it  will  be  with  my  charmer 
in  this  case — she  will  be  about  it,  and  about  it,  several  times : 
but  I  will  not  understand  her:  at  least,  after  half  a  dozen 
hem — ings,  she  will  be  obliged  to  speak  out — I  think,  Mr. 
Lovelace — I  think,  sir — I  think  you  were  saying  some  days 
ago — Still  I  will  be  all  silence — her  eyes  fixed  upon  my  shoe- 
buckles,  as  I  sit  over-against  her — ladies  when  put  to  it  thus 
always  admire  a  man's  shoe-buckles,  or  perhaps  some  particu- 
lar beauties  in  the  carpet.  I  think  you  said  that  Mrs.  Fretch- 
ville — then  a  crystal  tear  trickles  down  each  crimson  cheek, 
vexed  to  have  her  virgin  pride  so  little  assisted.  But,  come, 
my  meaning  dear,  cry  I  to  myself,  remember  what  I  have 
suffered  for  thee,  and  what  I  have  suffered  hy  thee !  Thy 
tearful  pausings  shall  not  be  helped  out  by  me.  Speak  out, 
love! — Oh,  the  sweet  confusion!  Can  I  rob  myself  of  so 
many  conflicting  beauties  by  the  precipitate  charmer-pitying 
folly,  by  which  a  politer  man  [thou  knowcst,  lovely,  that  I 
am  no  polite  man!]  betrayed  by  his  own  tenderness,  and 
unused  to  female  tears,  would  have  been  overcome?  'T>  will 
feign  an  irresolution  of  mind  on  the  occasion,  that  she  may 
not  quite  abhor  me — that  her  reflections  on  the  scene  in  my 
absence  may  bring  to  her  remembrance  some  beauties  in  my 
part  of  it:  and  irresolution  that  will  be  owing  to  awe,  to 
reverence,  to  profound  veneration;  and  that  will  have  m.ore 
eloquence  in  it  than  words  can  have.  Speak  out,  then,  love 
and  spare  not. 

Hard-heartedness,  as  it  is  called,  is  an  essential  of  the 
libertine's  character.    Familiarised  to  the  distresses  he  occa- 


CLARISSA   IIARLOWE.  107 

sions,  he  is  seldom  betrayed  by  tenderness  into  a  complaisant 
weakness  unworthy  of  himself. 

[Mentioning  the  settlements,  he  says], 

I  am  in  earnest  as  to  the  terms.  If  I  marry  her  [and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  I  shall,  after  my  pride,  my  ambition,  my 
revenge,  if  thou  wilt,  is  gratified],  I  will  do  her  noble  justice. 
The  more  I  do  for  such  a  prudent,  such  an  excellent  econo- 
mist, the  more  shall  I  do  for  myself. — But,  by  my  soul, 
Belford,  her  haughtiness  shall  be  brought  down  to  own  both 
love  and  obligation  to  me.  Nor  will  this  sketch  of  settle- 
ments bring  us  forwarder  than  I  would  have  it.  Modesty  of 
sex  will  stand  my  friend  at  any  time.  At  the  very  altar,  our 
hands  joined,  I  will  engage  to  make  this  proud  beauty  leave 
the  parson  and  me,  and  all  my  friends  who  should  be  present, 
though  twenty  in  number,  to  look  like  fools  upon  one  another, 
while  she  took  wing,  and  flew  out  of  the  church  door,  or 
window  (if  that  were  open,  and  the  door  shut)  ;  and  this 
only  by  a  single  word. 

[He  mentions  his  rash  expression.  That  she  should  be  his, 
although  his  damnation  was  to  be  the  purchase.] 
At  that  instant,  says  he,  I  was  upon  the  point  of  making 
a  violent  attempt,  but  was  checked  in  the  very  moment,  and 
but  just  in  time  to  save  myself,  by  the  awe  I  was  struck  with 
on  again  casting  my  eye  upon  her  terrified  but  lovely  face,  and 
seeing,  as  I  thought,  her  spotless  heart  in  every  line  of  it. 

0  virtue,  virtue !  proceeds  he,  what  is  there  in  thee,  that 
can  thus  against  his  will  affect  the  heart  of  a  Lovelace! — 
Whence  these  involuntary  tremors,  and  fear  of  giving  mortal 
offence  ? — What  art  thou,  that  acting  in  the  breast  of  a  feeble 
woman,  canst  strike  so  much  awe  into  a  spirit  so  intrepid ! 
which  never  before,  no,  not  in  my  first  attempt,  young  as  I 
then  was,  and  frightened  at  my  own  boldness  (till  I  found 
myself  forgiven)  had  such  an  effect  upon  me ! 

[He  paints,  in  lively  colours,  that  part  of  the  scene  between 
him  and  the  lady,  where  she  says.  The  word  father  has  a 
sweet  and  venerable  sound  with  it.] 


108  THE   HISTORY    OF 

I  was  exceedingly  affected,  says  he,  upon  the  occasion,  but 
was  ashamed  to  be  surprised  into  such  a  fit  of  unmanly  weak- 
ness— so  asharuz^d,  that  I  was  resolved  to  subdue  it  at  the 
instant,  and  to  guard  against  the  like  for  the  future.  Yet,  at 
that  moment,  I  more  than  half  regretted  that  I  could  not 
permit  her  to  enjoy  a  triumph  which  she  so  well  deserved  to 
glory  in — her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  artless  innocence,  and  her 
manner,  equally  beyond  comparison  or  description.  But  her 
indifference  J  Belf  ord ! — That  she  could  resolve  to  sacrifice  me 
to  the  malice  of  my  enemies;  and  carry  on  the  design  in  so 
clandestine  a  manner — yet  love  her,  as  I  do,  to  phrensy ! — 
revere  her,  as  I  do,  to  adoration! — These  were  the  recollec- 
tions with  which  I  fortified  my  recreant  heart  against  her ! — 
Yet,  after  all,  if  she  persevere,  she  must  conquer ! — Coward, 
as  she  has  made  me,  that  never  was  a  coward  before ! 

[He  concludes  his  fourth  letter  in  a  vehement  rage,  upon  her 
repulsing  him,  when  he  offered  to  salute  her;  having 
supposed,  as  he  owns,  that  she  would  have  been  all  conde- 
scension on  his  proposals  to  her.] 

This,  says  he,  I  will  forever  remember  against  her,  in  order 
to  steel  my  heart,  that  I  may  cut  through  a  rocJc  of  ice  to 
hers;  and  repay  her  for  the  disdain,  the  scorn,  which  glowed 
in  her  countenance,  and  was  apparent  in  her  air,  at  her  abrupt 
departure  from  me,  after  such  obliging  behaviour  on  my  side, 
and  after  I  had  so  earnestly  pressed  her  for  an  early  day. 
The  women  below  say  she  hates  me ;  she  despises  me ! — And 
'tis  true:  she  does;  she  must. — And  why  cannot  I  take  their 
advice?  I  will  not  long,  my  fair  one,  be  despised  by  thee, 
and  laughed  at  by  them! 

Let  me  acquaint  thee,  Jack,  adds  he,  by  way  of  postscript, 
that  this  effort  of  hers  to  leave  me,  if  she  could  have  been 
received;  her  sending  for  a  coach  on  Sunday;  no  doubt, 
resolving  not  to  return,  if  she  had  gone  out  without  me  (for 
did  she  not  declare  that  she  had  thoughts  to  retire  to  some 
of  the  villages  about  town,  where  she  could  be  safe  and 
private?)  have,  all  together,  so  much  alarmed  me,  that  I 
have  been  adding  to  the  written  instructions  for  my  fellow 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  109 

and  the  people  below  how  to  act  in  case  she  should  elope 
in  my  absence :  particularly  letting  Will  know  what  he  shall 
report  to  strangers  in  case  she  shall  throw  herself  upon  any 
such  with  a  resolution  to  abandon  me.  To  these  instruc- 
tions I  shall  further  add  as  circumstances  offer. 


LETTER  XXVII. 

Miss  Howe  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Thursday,   May    18. 

I  HAVE  neither  time  nor  patience,  my  dear  friend,  to  an- 
swer every  material  article  in  your  last  letters  just  now 
received.  Mr.  Lovelace's  proposals  are  all  I  like  of  him. 
And  yet  (as  you  do),  I  think  that  he  concludes  them  not 
with  that  warmth  and  earnestness  which  we  might  naturally 
have  expected  from  him.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  hear  or 
read  of  so  patient  a  man,  with  such  a  blessing  in  his  reach. 
But  wretches  of  his  cast,  between  you  and  me,  my  dear,  have 
not,  I  fancy,  the  ardours  that  honest  men  have.  Who 
knows,  as  your  Bell  once  spitefully  said,  but  he  may  have 
half  a  dozen  creatures  to  quit  his  hands  of  before  he  engages 
for  life? — Yet  I  believe  you  must  not  expect  him  to  be 
honest  on  this  side  of  his  grand  climateric. 

He,  to  suggest  delay  from  a  compliment  to  be  made  to 
Lord  M.  and  to  give  time  for  settlements !  He,  a  part  of 
whose  character  it  is,  not  to  know  what  complaisance  to  his 
relations  is — I  have  no  patience  with  him !  You  did  indeed 
want  an  interposing  friend  on  the  affecting  occasion  which 
you  mention  in  yours  of  yesterday  morning.  But,  upon 
my  word,  were  I  to  have  been  that  moment  in  your  situation, 
and  been  so  treated,  I  would  have  torn  his  eyes  out,  and 
left  it  to  his  own  heart,  when  I  had  done,  to  furnish  the 
reason  for  it. 

Would  to  Heaven  to-morrow,  without  complimenting  any- 
body,  might   he   his   happy  day! — Villain!     After  he  had 


110  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

himself  suggested  the  compliment ! — And  I  think  he  accuses 
YOU  of  delaying! — Fellow,  that  he  is! — How  my  heart  is 
wrung ! 

But  as  matters  now  stand  betwixt  you,  I  am  very  un- 
seasonable in  expressing  my  resentments  against  him. — Yet 
I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not,  neither;  since  it  is  the 
most  cruel  of  fates,  for  a  woman  to  be  forced  to  have  a  man 
whom  her  heart  despises.  You  must,  at  least,  despise  him; 
at  times,  however.  His  clenched  fist  offered  to  his  forehead 
on  your  leaving  him  in  just  displeasure — I  wish  it  had  been 
a  pole-axe,  and  in  the  hand  of  his  worst  enemy. 

I  will  endeavour  to  think  of  some  method,  of  some  scheme 
to  get  you  from  him,  and  to  fix  you  safely  somewhere  till 
your  cousin  Morden  arrives — A  scheme  to  lie  by  you,  and 
to  be  pursued  as  occasion  may  be  given.  You  are  sure  that 
you  can  go  abroad  when  you  please?  and  that  our  corres- 
pondence is  safe?  I  cannot,  however  (for  the  reasons  here- 
tofore mentioned  respecting  your  own  reputation)  wish  you 
to  leave  him  while  he  gives  you  not  cause  to  suspect  his  hon- 
our. But  your  heart  I  know  would  be  easier,  if  you  were 
sure  of  some  asylum  in  case  of  necessity. 

Yet  once  more,  I  say,  I  can  have  no  notion  that  he  can 
or  dare  to  mean  your  dishonour.  But  then  the  man  is  a 
fool,  my  dear — that's  all. 

However,  since  you  are  thrown  upon  a  fool,  marry  the 
fool  at  the  first  opportunity;  and  though  I  doubt  that  this 
man  will  be  the  most  ungovernable  of  fools,  as  all  witty  and 
vain  fools  are,  take  him  as  a  punishment,  since  you  cannot 
as  a  reward:  in  short,  as  one  given  to  convince  you  that 
there  is  nothing  but  imperfection  in  this  life. 

And  what  is  the  result  of  all  I  have  written,  but  this — 
Either  marry,  my  dear,  or  get  from  them  all,  and  from 
him  too. 

You  intend  the  latter,  you'll  say,  as  soon  as  you  have 
opportunity.  That,  as  above  hinted,  I  hope  quickly  to  furnish 
you  with :  and  then  comes  out  a  trial  between  you  and  your- 
self. 

These  are  the  very  fellows  that  we  women  do  not  naturally 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  Ill 

hate.  We  don't  always  know  what  is,  and  what  is  not,  in 
our  power  to  do.  When  some  principal  point  we  have  long 
had  in  view  becomes  so  critical,  that  we  must  of  necessity 
choose  or  refuse,  then  perhaps  we  look  about  us;  are  af- 
frighted at  the  wild  and  uncertain  prospect  before  us;  and, 
after  a  few  struggles  and  heartaches,  reject  the  untried  new ; 
draw  in  your  horns,  and  resolve  to  snail  on,  as  we  did 
before,  in  a  track  we  are  acquainted  with, 

I  shall  be  impatient  till  I  have  your  next.     I  am,  my 
dearest  friend. 

Your  ever  affectionate  and  faithful 

Anna  Howe. 


LETTEE  XXVIII. 

Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Wednesday,  May  17. 

I  CANNOT  conceal  from  you  anything  that  relates  to  your- 
self so  much  as  the  enclosed  does.  You  will  see  what  the 
noble  writer  apprehends  from  you,  and  wishes  of  you,  with 
regard  to  Miss  Harlowe,  and  how  much  at  heart  all  your 
relations  have  it  that  you  do  honourably  by  her.  They 
compliment  me  with  an  influence  over  you,  which  I  wish 
with  all  my  soul  you  would  let  me  have  in  this  article. 

Let  me  once  more  entreat  thee,  Lovelace,  to  reflect,  before 
it  be  too  late  (before  the  mortal  offence  be  given)  upon  the 
graces  and  merits  of  this  lady.  Let  thy  frequent  remorses 
at  last  end  in  one  effectual  remorse.  Let  not  pride  and 
wantonness  of  heart  ruin  the  fairer  prospects.  By  my  faith, 
Lovelace,  there  is  nothing  but  vanity,  conceit,  and  nonsense 
in  our  wild  schemes.  As  we  grow  older,  we  shall  be 
wiser,  and  looking  back  upon  our  foolish  notions  of  the 
present  hour  (our  youth  dissipated),  shall  certainly  despise 
ourselves  when  we  think  of  the  honourable  engagements  we 
might  have  made :  thou,  more  especially,  if  thou  lettest  such 


112  THE   HISTORY    OF 

a  matcliless  creature  slide  though  thy  fingers.  A  creature 
pure  from  her  cradle.  In  all  her  actions  and  sentiments 
uniformly  noble.  Strict  in  the  performance  of  all  her  even 
unrewarded  duties  to  the  most  unreasonable  of  fathers;  what 
a  wife  will  she  make  the  man  who  shall  have  the  honour  to 
call  her  his ! 

What  apprehensions  wouldst  thou  have  had  reason  for, 
had  she  been  prevailed  upon  by  giddy  or  frail  motives,  for 
which  one  man,  by  importunity,  might  prevail,  as  well  as 
another  ? 

We  all  know  what  an  inventive  genius  thou  art  master 
of:  we  are  all  sensible  that  thou  hast  a  head  to  contrive, 
and  a  heart  to  execute.  Have  I  not  called  thine  the  plottingest 
heart  in  the  universe?  I  called  it  so  upon  knowledge.  What 
wouldst  thou  more?  Why  should  it  be  the  most  villanous, 
as  well  as  the  most  ahle? — Marry  the  lady;  and  when  mar- 
ried, let  her  know  what  a  number  of  contrivances  thou  hadst 
in  readiness  to  play  off.  Beg  of  her  not  to  hate  thee  for 
the  communication;  and  assure  her  that  thou  gavest  them 
up  from  remorse,  and  in  justice  to  her  extraordinary  merit: 
and  let  her  have  the  opportunity  of  congratulating  herself 
for  subduing  a  heart  so  capable  of  what  thou  callest  glorious 
mischief.  This  will  give  Iter  room  for  triumph;  and  even 
thee  no  less:  she,  for  hers  over  thee;  thou,  for  thine  over 
thyself. 

Eeflect  likewise  upon  her  sufferings  for  thee.  Actually 
at  the  time  thou  art  forming  schemes  to  ruin  her  (at  least 
in  her  sense  of  the  word),  is  she  not  labouring  under  a 
father's  curse  laid  upon  her  by  thy  means,  and  for  thy  sake  ? 
and  wouldst  thou  give  operation  and  completion  to  that 
curse,  which  otherwise  cannot  have  effect? 

And  what,  Lovelace,  all  the  time  is  thy  pride? — Thou 
that  vainly  imaginest  that  the  whole  family  of  the  Harlowes, 
and  that  of  the  Howes  too,  are  but  thy  machines,  unknown, 
to  themselves,  to  bring  about  thy  purposes,  and  thy  revenge, 
what  art  thou  more  or  better  than  the  instrument  even  of 
her  implacable  brother,  and  envious  sister,  to  perpetuate  the 
disgrace  of  the  most  excellent  of  sisters,  to  which  they  are 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  113 

moved  by  vilely  low  and  sordid  motives. — Canst  thou  bear, 
Lovelace,  to  be  thought  the  machine  of  thy  inveterate  enemy 
James  Harlowe? — Nay,  art  thou  not  the  cully  of  that  still 
viler  Joseph  Leman,  who  serves  himself  as  much  by  thy 
money,  as  he  does  thee  by  the  double  part  he  acts  by  thy 
direction? — And  further  still,  art  thou  not  the  devil's  agent, 
who  only  can,  and  who  certainly  will,  suitably  reward  thee, 
if  thou  proceedest,  and  if  thou  effectest  thy  wicked  purpose? 

Could  any  man  but  thee  put  together  upon  paper  the 
following  questions  with  so  much  unconcern  as  thou  seemest 
to  have  written  them? — give  them  a  reperusal,  0  heart  of 
adamant !  '  Whither  can  she  fly  to  avoid  me  !  Her  parents 
'  will  not  receive  her.  Her  uncles  will  not  entertain  her. 
'  Her  beloved  Norton  is  in  their  direction,  and  cannot.  Miss 
'  Howe  dare  not.  She  has  not  one  friend  in  town  but  me 
'  — is  entirely  a  stranger  to  the  town.'  * — What  must  that 
heart  be  that  can  triumph  in  a  distress  so  deep,  into  which 
she  has  been  plunged  by  thy  elaborate  arts  and  contrivances  ? 
And  what  a  sweet,  yet  sad  reflection  was  that,  which  had 
like  to  have  had  its  due  effect  upon  thee,  arising  from  thy 
naming  Lord  M.  for  her  nuptial  father?  her  tender  years 
inclining  her  to  wish  a  father,  and  to  hope  a  friend. — Oh, 
my  dear  Lovelace,  canst  thou  resolve  to  be,  instead  of  the 
father  thou  hast  robbed  her  of,  a  devil  ? 

Thou  knowest  that  I  have  no  interest,  that  I  can  have 
no  view  in  wishing  thee  to  do  justice  to  this  admirable 
creature.  For  thy  own  sake,  once  more  I  conjure  thee,  for 
thy  family's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  our  common  humanity, 
let  me  beseech  thee  to  be  just  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

No  matter  whether  these  expostulations  are  in  character 
from  me,  or  not.  I  have  been  and  am  bad  enough.  If  thou 
takest  my  advice,  which  is  (as  the  enclosed  will  show  thee) 
the  advice  of  all  thy  family,  thou  wilt  perhaps  have  it  to 
reproach  me  (and  but  perhaps  neither)  that  thou  art  not 
a  worse  man  than  myself.  But  if  thou  dost  not,  and  if 
thou  ruinest  such  a  virtue,  all  the  complicated  wickedness 
of  ten  devils,  let  loose  among  the  innocent  with  full  power 
*  See  Letter  XIV.  of  this  volume. 


114  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

over  them,  will  not  do  so  much  vile  and  base  mischief  as 
thou  wilt  be  guilty  of. 

It  is  said  that  the  prince  on  his  throne  is  not  safe,  if  a 
mind  so  desperate  can  be  found,  as  values  not  its  own  life. 
So  may  it  be  said  that  the  most  immaculate  virtue  is  not 
safe,  if  a  man  can  be  met  with  who  has  no  regard  to  his 
own  honour,  and  makes  a  jest  of  the  most  solenm  vows  and 
protestations. 

Thou  mayest  by  trick,  chicane,  and  false  colours,  thou 
who  art  worse  than  a  pickeroon  in  love,  overcome  a  poor 
lady  so  entangled  as  thou  hast  entangled  her;  so  unprotected 
as  thou  hast  made  her:  but  consider  how  much  more  gen- 
erous and  just  to  her,  and  noble  to  thyself  it  is,  to  overcome 
tJiyself. 

Once  more,  it  is  no  matter  whether  my  past  or  future 
actions  countenance  my  preachment,  as  perhaps  thou'lt  call 
what  I  have  written:  but  this  I  promise  thee,  that  when- 
ever I  meet  with  a  woman  of  but  one  half  of  Miss  Harlowe's 
perfections,  who  will  favour  me  with  her  acceptance,  I  will 
take  the  advice  I  give,  and  marry.  Nor  will  I  offer  to  try 
her  honour  at  the  hazard  of  my  own. 

In  other  words,  I  will  not  degrade  an  excellent  creature 
in  her  own  eyes,  by  trials,  when  I  have  no  cause  for  suspicion. 
And  let  me  add,  with  respect  to  thy  eagleship's  manifesta- 
tion, of  which  thou  boastest,  in  thy  attempts  upon  the  inno- 
cent and  uneorrupted,  rather  than  upon  those  whom  thou 
humorously  comparest  to  wrens,  wagtails,  and  phyltits,  as 
thou  callest  them,*  that  I  hope  I  have  it  not  once  to  reproach 
myself,  that  I  ruined  the  morals  of  any  one  creature,  who 
otherwise  would  have  been  uneorrupted.  Guilt  enough  in 
contributing  to  the  continued  guilt  of  other  poor  wretches, 
if  I  am  one  of  those  who  take  care  she  shall  never  rise  again, 
when  she  has  once  fallen. 

Whatever  the  capital  devil,  under  whose  banner  thou  hast 

listed,  will  let  thee  do,  with  regard  to  this  incomparable 

woman,  I  hope  thou  wilt  act  with  honour  in  relation  to  the 

enclosed,  between  Lord  M.  and  me ;  since  his  Lordship,  as 

*  See  Letter  X.  of  Vol.  IV. 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  115 

thou  wilt  see,  desires  that  thou  mayest  not  know  he  wrote 
on  the  subject;  for  reasons,  I  think,  very  far  from  being 
creditable  to  thyself:  and  that  thou  wilt  take  as  meant,  the 
honest  zeal  for  thy  service,  of 

Thy  real  friend,  -r    ^ 

-'  '  J.  Belford. 


LETTEK  XXIX. 

Lord  M.  to  John  Belford^  Esq. 

[Enclosed  in  the  preceding.] 

M.  Hall,  Monday,  May  15. 

SiR^ — If  any  man  in  the  world  has  power  over  my  nephew, 
it  is  you.  I  therefore  write  this,  to  beg  you  to  interfere  in 
the  affair  depending  between  him  and  the  most  accomplished 
of  women,  as  every  one  says;  and  what  every  one  says  must 
he  true. 

I  don  t  know  that  he  has  any  bad  designs  upon  her ;  but  I 
know  his  temper  too  well,  not  to  be  apprehensive  upon 
such  long  delays :  and  the  ladies  here  have  been  for  some  time 
in  fear  for  her:  Lady  Sarah  in  particular,  who  (as  you 
must  know)  is  a  wise  woman,  says,  that  these  delays,  in  the 
present  case,  must  be  from  him,  rather  than  from  the  lady. 

He  had  always  indeed  a  strong  antipathy  to  marriage, 
and  may  think  of  playing  his  dog's  tricks  by  her,  as  he  has 
by  so  many  others.  If  there's  any  danger  of  this,  'tis  best 
to  prevent  it  in  time :  for  when  a  thing  is  done,  advice  comes 
too  late. 

He  has  always  had  the  folly  and  impertinence  to  make  a 
jest  of  me  for  using  proverbs :  but  as  they  are  the  wisdom 
of  whole  nations  and  ages  collected  into  a  small  compass,  I 
am  not  to  be  shamed  out  of  sentences  that  often  contain  more 
wisdom  in  them  than  the  tedious  harangues  of  most  of  our 
parsons  and  moralists.  Let  him  laugh  at  them,  if  he  pleases : 
Vol.  IV— 10. 


116  THE   HISTORY   OF 

you  and  I  know  better  things,  Mr.  Belford — Though  you  have 
Jcept  company  with  a  wolf,  you  have  not  learnt  to  howl  of 
him. 

But  nevertheless,  you  must  let  him  know  that  I  have 
written  to  you  on  this  subject.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it; 
but  he  has  ever  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  man  of  very  com- 
mon understanding;  and  would,  perhaps,  think  never  the 
better  of  the  best  advice  in  the  world,  for  coming  from  me. 
Those,  Mr.  Belford,  who  most  love,  are  least  set  hy. — But 
who  would  expect  velvet  to  he  made  out  of  a  sow's  ear? 

I  am  sure  he  has  no  reason,  however,  to  slight  me  as  he 
does.  He  may  and  will  be  the  better  for  me,  if  he  outlives 
me;  though  he  once  told  me  to  my  face,  that  I  might  do  as 
I  would  with  my  estate;  for  that  he,  for  his  part,  loved  his 
liberty  as  much  as  he  despised  money.  And  at  another  time, 
twitting  me  with  my  phrases,  that  the  man  was  above  con- 
trol, who  wanted  not  either  to  borroiv  or  flatter.  He  thought, 
I  suppose,  that  I  could  not  cover  him  with  my  wings,  without 
pecking  at  him  with  my  bill;  though  I  never  used  to  be 
pecking  at  him,  without  very  great  occasion :  and,  God  knows, 
he  might  have  my  very  heart,  if  he  would  but  endeavour 
to  oblige  me,  by  studying  his  own  good;  for  that  is  all  I 
desire  of  him.  Indeed  it  was  his  poor  mother  that  first 
spoiled  him ;  and  I  have  been  but  too  indulgent  to  him  since. 
A  fine  grateful  disposition,  you'll  say,  to  return  evil  for  good! 
but  that  was  always  his  way.  It  is  a  good  saying,  and  which 
was  verified  by  him  with  a  witness — Children  when  little, 
make  their  parents  fools;  when  great,  mad.  Had  his  parents 
lived  to  see  what  I  have  seen  of  him,  they  would  have  been 
mad  indeed. 

This  match,  however,  as  the  lady  has  such  an  extraordi- 
nary share  of  wisdom  and  goodness,  might  set  all  to  rights; 
and  if  you  can  forward  it,  I  would  enable  him  to  make  what- 
ever settlements  he  could  wish;  and  should  not  be  unwilling 
to  put  him  in  possession  of  another  pretty  estate  besides. 
I  am  no  covetous  man,  he  knows.  And  indeed  what  is  a 
covetous  man  to  be  likened  to  so  fitly,  as  to  a  dog  in  a  luheel 
which  roasts  meat  for  others?    And  what  do  I  live  for  (as 


CLARISSA   EARLOWE.  117 

I  have  often  said),  but  to  see  him  and  my  two  nieces  well 
married  and  settled.  May  Heaven  settle  him  down  to  a  better 
mind,  and  turn  his  heart  to  more  of  goodness  and  considera- 
tion! 

If  the  delays  are  on  his  side,  I  tremble  for  the  lady ;  and, 
if  on  hers  (as  he  tells  my  niece  Charlotte),  I  could  wish 
she  were  apprised  that  delays  are  dangerous.  Excellent  as 
she  is,  she  ought  not  to  depend  on  her  merits  vrith.  such  a 
changeable  fellow,  and  such  a  profest  marriage-hater,  as  he 
has  been.  Desert  and  reward,  I  can  assure  her,  seldom  keep 
company  together. 

But  let  him  remember  that  vengeance,  though  it  comes 
with  leaden  feet,  strikes  with  iron  hands.  If  he  behaves  ill 
in  this  case,  he  may  find  it  so.  What  a  pity  it  is,  that  a 
man  of  his  talents  and  learning  should  be  so  vile  a  rake! 
Alas !  alas !  Une  poignee  de  bonne  vie  vaut  mieux  que  plein 
muy  de  clergee;  a  handful  of  good  life  is  better  than  a 
whole  bushel  of  learning. 

You  may  throw  in,  too,  as  a  friend,  that,  should  he  pro- 
voke me,  it  may  not  be  too  late  for  me  to  marry.  My  old 
friend  Wycherly  did  so,  when  he  was  older  than  I  am,  on 
purpose  to  plague  his  nephew:  and,  in  spite  of  this  gout, 
I  might  have  a  child  or  two  still.  I  have  not  been  without 
some  thoughts  that  way,  when  he  has  angered  me  more 
than  ordinary:  but  these  thoughts  have  gone  off  again 
hitherto,  upon  my  considering  that  the  children  of  very 
young  and  very  old  men  (though  I  am  not  so  very  old 
neither)  last  not  long;  and  that  old  men,  when  they  marry 
young  women,  are  said  to  make  much  of  death.  Yet  who 
knows  but  that  matrimony  might  be  good  against  the  gouty 
humours  I  am  troubled  with? 

No  man  is  everything — you,  Mr.  Bel  ford,  are  a  learned 
man.  I  am  a  peer.  And  do  you  (as  you  best  know  how) 
inculcate  upon  him  the  force  of  these  wise  sayings  which 
follow,  as  well  as  those  which  went  before;  but  yet  so  dis- 
creetly, as  that  he  may  not  know  that  you  borrow  your  darts 
from  my  quiver.  These  be  they — Happy  is  the  man  who 
knows  his  follies  in  his  youth.    He  that  lives  well,  lives  long. 


118  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

Again^  He  that  lives  ill  one  year,  will  sorrow  for  it  seven. 
And  again,  as  the  Spaniards  have  it — Who  lives  well  sees 
afar  off!  Far  off  indeed;  for  he  sees  into  eternity,  as  a 
man  may  say.  Then  that  other  fine  saying,  He  who  perishes 
in  needless  dangers,  is  the  devil's  martyr.  Another  proverb 
I  picked  up  at  Madrid,  when  I  accompanied  Lord  Lexington 
in  his  embassy  to  Spain,  which  might  teach  my  nephew 
more  mercy  and  compassion  than  is  in  his  nature  I  doubt  to 
show;  which  is  this,  That  he  who  pities  another  remembers 
himself.  And  this  that  is  going  to  follow,  I  am  sure  he  has 
proved  the  truth  of  a  hundred  times.  That  he  who  does  what 
he  will  seldom  does  what  he  ought.  Nor  is  that  unworthy 
of  his  notice.  Young  men's  frolics  old  men  feel.  My  devilish 
gout,  God  help  me — but  I  will  not  say  what  I  was  going 
to  say. 

I  remember  that  you  yourself,  complimenting  me  for  my 
taste  in  pithy  and  wise  sentences,  said  a  thing  that  gave  me 
a  high  opinion  of  you ;  and  it  was  this :  '  Men  of  talents,' 
said  you,  '  are  sooner  to  be  convinced  by  short  sentences 
'  than  by  long  preachments,  because  the  short  sentences  drive 
'  themselves  into  the  heart  and  stay  there,  while  long  dis- 
'  courses,  though  ever  so  good,  tire  the  attention ;  and  one 
'  good  thing  drives  out  another,  and  so  on  till  all  is  f or- 
'  gotten.' 

May  your  good  counsel,  Mr.  Belford,  founded  upon  these 
hints  which  I  have  given,  pierce  his  heart,  and  incite  him 
to  do  what  will  be  so  happy  for  himself,  and  so  necessary 
for  the  honour  of  that  admirable  lady  whom  I  long  to  see 
his  wife;  and,  if  I  may,  I  will  not  think  of  one  for  myself. 

Should  he  abuse  the  confidence  she  has  placed  in  him,  I 
myself  shall  pray  that  vengeance  may  fall  upon  his  head — 
Rare — I  quite  forget  all  my  Latin;  but  I  think  it  is,  Raro 
antecedentem  scelestum  deseruit  pede  poena  claudo:  where 
vice  goes  before,  vengeance  (sooner  or  later)  will  follow.  But 
why  do  I  translate  these  things  for  you? 

I  shall  make  no  apologies  for  this  trouble.  I  know  how 
well  you  love  him  and  me;  and  there  is  nothing  in  which 
you  could  serve  us  both  more  importantly,  than  in  forward- 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  119 

ing  this  match  to  the  utmost  of  your  power.  When  it  is 
done,  how  shall  I  rejoice  to  see  you  at  M.  Hall!  Mean- 
time, I  shall  long  to  hear  that  you  are  likely  to  be  success- 
ful with  him;  and  am, 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  faithful  friend  and  servant, 

M. 

[Mr.  Lovelace  having  not  returned  an  answer  to  Mr.  Bel- 
ford's  expostulatory  letter  so  soon  as  Mr.  Belford  expected, 
he  wrote  to  him,  expressing  his  apprehension  that  he  had 
disobliged  him  by  his  honest  freedom.  Among  other  things 
he  says — ] 

I  pass  my  time  here  at  Watford,  attending  my  dying  uncle, 
very  heavily.  I  cannot  therefore,  by  any  means,  dispense 
with  thy  correspondence.  And  why  shouldst  thou  punish 
me  for  having  more  conscience  and  more  remorse  than  thy- 
self ?  Thou  who  never  thoughtest  either  conscience  or  remorse 
an  honour  to  thee.  And  I  have,  besides,  a  melancholy  story 
to  tell  thee,  in  relation  to  Belton  and  his  Thomasine;  and 
which  may  afford  a  lesson  to  all  the  keeping-class. 

I  have  a  letter  from  each  of  our  three  companions  in  the 
time.  They  have  all  the  wickedness  that  thou  hast,  but  not 
the  wit.  Some  new  rogueries  do  two  of  them  boast  of, 
which,  I  think,  if  completed,  deserve  the  gallows. 

I  am  far  from  hating  intrigue  upon  principle.  But  to 
have  awkward  fellows  plot,  and  commit  their  plots  to  paper, 
destitute  of  the  seasonings,  of  the  acumen,  wliich  is  thy 
talent,  how  extremely  shocking  must  their  letters  be ! — But 
do  thou,  Lovelace,  whether  thou  art,  or  art  not,  determined 
upon  thy  measures  with  regard  to  the  fine  lady  in  thy  power, 
enliven  my  heavy  heart  by  thy  communications;  and  thou 
wilt  oblige 

Thy  melancholy  friend, 

J.  Belford. 


120  THE   HISTORY    OF 


LETTEE  XXX. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Friday  Night,  May  19. 

When  I  have  opened  my  views  to  thee  so  amply  as  I  have 
done  in  my  former  letters;  and  have  told  thee,  that  my 
principal  design  is  but  to  bring  virtue  to  a  trial,  that,  if 
virtue,  it  need  not  be  afraid  of;  and  that  the  reward  of  it 
will  be  marriage  (that  is  to  say,  if,  after  I  have  carried  my 
point,  I  cannot  prevail  upon  her  to  live  with  me  the  life  of 
honour;*  for  that  thou  knowest  is  the  wish  of  my  heart)  ; 
I  am  amazed  at  the  repetition  of  thy  wambling  nonsense. 

I  am  of  opinion  with  thee,  that  some  time  hence,  when 
I  am  grown  wiser,  I  shall  conclude  that  there  is  nothing  hut 
vanity,  conceit,  and  nonsense,  in  my  present  wild  schemes. 
But  what  is  this  saying,  but  that  I  must  be  first  wiser? 

I  do  not  intend  to  let  this  matchless  creature  slide  through 
my  fingers. 

Art  thou  able  to  say  half  the  things  in  her  praise  that  I 
have  said,  and  am  continually  saying  or  writing? 

Her  gloomy  father  cursed  the  sweet  creature,  because  she 
put  it  out  of  his  wicked  power  to  compel  her  to  have  the 
man  she  hated.  Thou  knowest  how  little  merit  she  has  with 
me  on  this  score — and  shall  I  not  try  the  virtue  I  intended, 
upon  full  proof,  to  reward,  because  her  father  is  a  tyrant? 
— Why  art  thou  thus  eternally  reflecting  upon  so  excellent 
a  woman,  as  if  thou  wert  assured  she  would  fail  in  the  trial? 
— Nay,  thou  declarest  every  time  thou  writest  on  the  subject, 
that  she  will,  that  she  must  yield,  entangled  as  she  is:  and 
yet  makest  her  virtue  the  pretence  of  thy  solicitude  for  her. 

An  instrument  of  the  vile  James  Harlowe,  dost  thou  call 

me  ? — 0  Jack !  how  could  I  curse  thee ! — I  an  instrument 

of  that  brother !  of  that  sister !     But  mark  the  end — and 

thou  shalt  see  what  will  become  of  that  brother,  and  of  that 

sister ! 

*  See  Vol.  III.,  Letter  XVI. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  121 

Play  not  against  me  my  own  acknowledged  sensibilities, 
I  desire  thee.  Sensibilities,  which  at  the  same  time  that 
they  contradict  thy  charge  of  an  adamantine  heart  in  thy 
friend,  thou  hadst  known  nothing  of,  had  I  not  communi- 
cated them  to  thee. 

//  /  ruin  such  a  virtue,  sayest  thou ! — Eternal  monoton- 
ist! — Again;  the  most  immaculate  virtue  may  be  ruined  hy 
men  who  have  no  regard  to  their  honour,  and  who  make  a 
jest  of  the  most  solemn  oaths,  &c.  What  must  be  the  virtue 
that  will  be  ruined  without  oaths'?  Is  not  the  world  full 
of  these  deceptions?  And  are  not  lovers'  oaths  a  jest  of 
hundreds  of  years'  standing?  And  are  not  cautions  against 
the  perfidy  of  our  sex  a  necessary  part  of  the  female  edu- 
cation ? 

I  dt)  intend  to  endeavour  to  overcome  myself;  but  I  must 
first  try  if  I  cannot  overcome  this  lady.  Have  I  not  said 
that  the  honour  of  her  sex  is  concerned  that  I  should  tryf 

Whenever  thou  meetest  with  a  woman  of  but  half  of  her 
perfections,  thou  wilt  marry — Do,  Jack. 

Can  a  girl  be  degraded  by  trials,  who  is  not  overcome? 

I  am  glad  that  thou  takest  crime  to  thyself,  for  not  en- 
deavouring to  convert  the  poor  wretches  whom  others  have 
ruined.  I  will  not  recriminate  upon  thee,  Belford,  as  I 
might,  when  thou  flatterest  thyself  that  thou  never  ruinedst 
the  morals  of  any  young  creature,  who  otherwise  would 
not  have  been  corrupted — the  palliating  consolation  of  a 
Hottentot  heart,  determined  rather  to  gluttonise  on  the 
garbage  of  other  foul  feeders  than  to  reform. — But  tell  me, 
Jack,  wouldst  thou  have  spared  such  a  girl  as  my  Rosebud, 
had  I  not,  by  my  example,  engaged  thy  generosity?  Nor 
was  my  Eosebud  the  only  girl  I  spared: — When  my  power 
was  acknowledged,  who  more  merciful  than  thy  friend? 

It  is  resistance  that  inflames  desire, 
Sharpens  the  darts  of  love,  and  blows  its  fire. 
Love  is  disarmed  that  meets  with  too  much  ease; 
He  languishes,  and  does  not  care  to  please. 


123  THE   HISTORY    OF 

The  women  know  this  as  well  as  the  men.  They  love  to 
be  addressed  with  spirit: 

And  therefore  'tis  their  golden  fruit  they  guard 
With  so  much  care,  to  make  possession  hard. 

Whence,  for  a  by-reflection,  the  ardent,  the  complaisant 
gallant  is  so  often  preferred  to  the  cold,  the  unadoring  hus- 
band. And  yet  the  sex  do  not  consider  that  variety  and 
novelty  give  the  ardour  and  the  obsequiousness;  and  that, 
were  the  rake  as  much  used  to  them  as  the  husband  is,  he 
would  be  [and  is  to  his  own  wife,  if  married]  as  indifferent 
to  their  favours,  as  their  husbands  are;  and  the  husband,  in 
his  turn,  would,  to  another  woman,  be  the  rake.  Let  the 
women,  upon  the  whole,  take  this  lesson  from  a  Lovelace 
— '  Always  to  endeavour  to  make  themselves  as  new  to  a 
*  husband,  and  to  appear  as  elegant  and  as  obliging  to  him, 
'  as  they  are  desirous  to  appear  to  a  lover,  and  actually  were 
'  to  him,  as  such;  and  then  the  raJce,  which  all  women  love, 
'  will  last  longer  in  the  husband,  than  it  generally  does.' 

But  to  return: — If  I  have  not  sufficiently  cleared  my 
conduct  to  thee  in  the  above;  I  refer  thee  once  more  to  mine 
of  the  13th  of  last  month.*  And  pr'ythee,  Jack,  lay  me 
not  under  a  necessity  to  repeat  the  same  things  so  often.  I 
hope  thou  readest  what  I  write  more  than  once. 

I  am  not  displeased  that  thou  art  so  apprehensive  of  my 
resentment,  that  I  cannot  miss  a  day  without  making  thee 
nneasy.  Thy  conscience,  'tis  plain,  tells  thee  that  thou  hast 
■deserved  my  displeasure;  and  if  it  has  convinced  thee  of 
that,  it  will  make  thee  afraid  of  repeating  thy  fault.  See 
that  this  be  the  consequence.  Else,  now  that  thou  hast  told 
me  how  I  can  punish  thee,  it  is  very  likely  that  I  do  punish 
thee  by  my  silence,  although  I  have  as  much  pleasure  in 
writing  on  this  charming  subject,  as  thou  canst  have  in 
reading  what  I  write. 

V      When  a  boy,  if  a  dog  ran  away  from  me  through  fear,  I 
generally  looked  about  for  a  stone,  or  a  stick ;  and  if  neither 

*  See  Vol.  III.  Letter  XIV. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  123 

offered  to  my  hand,  I  skimmed  my  hat  after  him  to  make 
him  afraid  for  something.  What  signifies  power,  if  we  do 
not  exert  it? 

Let  my  Lord  know  that  thou  hast  scribbled  to  me.  But 
give  him  not  the  contents  of  thy  epistle.  Though  a  parcel 
of  crude  stuff,  he  would  think  there  was  something  in  it. 
Poor  arguments  will  do,  when  brought  in  favour  of  what 
we  like.  But  the  stupid  peer  little  thinks  that  this  lady  is 
a  rebel  to  Love.  On  the  contrary,  not  only  he,  but  all  the 
world  believe  her  to  be  a  volunteer  in  his  service. — So  I 
shall  incur  blame,  and  she  will  be  pitied,  if  anything  happen 
amiss. 

Since  my  Lord's  heart  is  set  upon  this  match,  I  have 
written  already  to  let  him  know,  "  That  my  unhappy  char- 

*  acter  has  given  my  beloved  an  ungenerous  diffidence  of 
'  me.  That  she  is  so  mother-sick  and  father-fond,  that  she 
'  had  rather  return  to  Harlowe  Place  than  marry.    That  she 

*  is  even  apprehensive  that  the  step  she  has  taken  of  going 
'  off  with  me  will  make  the  ladies  of  a  family  of  such  rank 
'  and  honour  as  ours  think  slightly  of  her.    That  therefore  1 

*  desire  his  Lordship  (though  this  hint,  I  tell  him,  must  be 

*  very  delicately  touched)  to  write  me  such  a  letter  as  I  can 
'  show  her  (let  him  treat  me  in  it  ever  so  freely,  I  shall  not 

*  take  it  amiss,  I  tell  him,  because  I  know  his  Lordship  takes 

*  pleasure  in  writing  to  me  in  a  corrective  style).  That  he 
'  may  make  what  offers  he  pleases  on  the  marriage.     That 

*  I  desire  his  presence  at  the  ceremony ;  that  I  may  take  from 

*  his  hand  the  greatest  blessing  that  mortal  man  can  give  me.' 

I  have  not  absolutely  told  the  lady  that  I  would  write  to 
his  Lordship  to  this  effect;  yet  have  given  her  reason  to 
think  I  will.  So  that  without  the  last  necessity  I  shall  not 
produce  the  answer  I  expect  from  him:  for  I  am  very  loth, 
I  own,  to  make  use  of  any  of  my  family's  names  for  the 
furthering  of  my  designs.  And  yet  I  must  make  all  secure, 
before  I  pull  off  the  mask.  Was  not  this  my  motive  for 
bringing  her  hither? 

Thus  thou  seest  that  the  old  peer's  letter  came  very  sea- 
sonablj.    I  thank  thee  for  it.    But  as  to  his  sentences,  they 


•  t 


124  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

cannot  possibly  do  me  good.  I  was  early  suffocated  with 
his  wisdom  of  nations.  When  a  boy,  I  never  asked  any- 
thing of  him,  but  out  flew  a  proverb;  and  if  the  tendency 
of  that  was  to  deny  me,  I  never  could  obtain  the  least  favour. 
This  gave  me  so  great  an  aversion  to  the  very  word,  that, 
when  a  child,  I  made  it  a  condition  with  my  tutor,  who 
was  an  honest  parson,  that  I  would  not  read  my  Bible  at 
all,  if  he  would  not  excuse  me  one  of  the  wisest  books  in  it; 
to  which,  however,  I  had  no  other  objection,  than  that  it  was 
called  The  Proverbs.  And  as  for  Solomon,  he  was  then  a 
hated  character  with  me,  not  because  of  his  polygamy,  but 
because  I  had  conceived  him  to  be  such  another  musty  old 
fellow  as  my  uncle. 

Well,  but  let  us  leave  old  saws  to  old  men.  What  signifies 
thy  tedious  whining  over  thy  departing  relation?  Is  it  not 
generally  agreed  that  he  cannot  recover?  Will  it  not  be 
kind  in  thee  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery?  I  hear  that  he 
is  pestered  still  with  visits  from  doctors,  and  apothecaries, 
and  surgeons;  that  they  cannot  cut  so  deep  as  the  mortifica- 
tion has  gone;  and  that  in  every  visit,  in  every  scarification, 
inevitable  death  is  pronounced  upon  him.  Why  then  do  they 
keep  tormenting  him?  Is  it  not  to  take  away  more  of  his 
living  fleece  than  of  his  dead  flesh? — When  a  man  is  given 
over,  the  fee  should  surely  be  refused.  Are  they  not  now  rob- 
bing his  heirs? — What  hast  thou  to  do,  if  the  will  be  as 
thou'dst  have  it? — He  sent  for  thee  [did  he  not?]  to  close 
his  eyes.    He  is  but  an  uncle,  is  he? 

Let  me  see,  if  I  mistake  not,  it  is  in  the  Bible,  or  some 
other  good  book:  can  it  be  in  Herodotus? — Oh,  I  believe  it 
is  in  Josephus,  a  half  sacred  and  half  profane  author.  He 
tells  us  of  a  king  of  Syria  put  out  of  his  pain  by  his  prime 
minister,  or  one  who  deserved  to  be  so  for  his  contrivance. 
The  story  says,  if  I  am  right,  that  he  spread  a  wet  cloth 
over  his  face,  which  killing  him,  he  reigned  in  his  place. 
A  notable  fellow !  Perhaps  this  wet  cloth  in  the  original 
is  what  we  now  call  laudanum;  a  potion  that  overspreads 
the  faculties,  as  the  wet  cloth  did  the  face  of  the  royal 
patient;  and  the  translator  knew  not  how  to  render  it. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  125 

But  how  like  a  forlorn  varlet  thou  subscribest,  '  Thy 
*  melancholy  friend,  J.  Belford  ! '  Melancholy !  For  what  ? 
To  stand  by  and  see  fair  play  between  an  old  man  and 
death?  I  thought  thou  hadst  been  more  of  a  man;  thou 
that  art  not  afraid  of  an  acute  death,  a  sword's  point,  to 
be  so  plaguily  hip'd  at  the  consequences  of  a  chronical  one ! 
— What  though  the  scarificators  work  upon  him  day  by 
day?  It's  only  upon  a  caput  mortuum:  and  pr'ythee  go  to, 
to  use  the  stylum  veterum,  and  learn  of  the  royal  butchers; 
who,  for  sport  (a  hundred  times  worse  men  than  thy  Love- 
lace), widow  ten  thousand  at  a  brush,  and  make  twice  as 
many  fatherless — learn  of  them,  I  say,  how  to  support  a 
single  death. 

But  art  thou  sure.  Jack,  it  is  a  mortification? — My  uncle 
once  gave  promises  of  such  a  root  and  branch  distemper: 
but,  alas !  it  turned  to  a  smart  gout-fit ;  and  I  had  the  morti- 
fication instead  of  him. — I  have  heard  that  bark,  in  proper 
doses,  will  arrest  a  mortification  in  its  progress,  and  at  last 
cure  it.  Let  thy  uncle's  surgeon  know,  that  it  is  worth 
more  than  his  ears  if  he  prescribe  one  grain  of  the  bark. 

I  wish  my  uncle  had  given  me  the  opportunity  of  setting 
thee  a  better  example :  thou  shouldst  have  seen  what  a  brave 
fellow  I  had  been.  And  had  I  had  occasion  to  write,  my 
conclusion  would  have  been  this :  '  I  hope  the  old  Trojan's 
'  happy.     In  that  hope,  I  am  so ;  and 

*  Thy  rejoicing  friend, 

'R.  Lovelace.' 

Dwell  not  always.  Jack,  upon  one  subject.  Let  me  have 
poor  Belton's  story.  The  sooner  the  better.  If  I  can  be 
of  service  to  him,  tell  him  he  may  command  me  either  in 
purse  or  person.  Yet  the  former  with  a  freer  will  than 
the  latter ;  for  how  can  I  leave  my  goddess  ?  But  1^11  issue 
my  commands  to  my  other  vassals  to  attend  thy  summons. 

If  ye  want  head,  let  me  know.  If  not,  my  quota,  on  this 
occasion,  is  money. 


126  TUB   HISTORY   OF 


LETTEE  XXXL 

Mr.  Belford  to  Mr.  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Saturday,  May  20. 

Not  one  word  will  I  reply  to  such  an  abandoned  wretch, 
as  thou  hast  shown  thyself  to  be  in  thine  of  last  night.  I 
Avill  leave  the  lady  to  the  protection  of  that  Power  who  only 
can  work  miracles;  and  to  her  own  merits.  Still  I  have 
hopes  that  these  will  save  her. 

I  will  proceed,  as  thou  desirest,  to  poor  Belton's  case; 
and  the  rather,  as  it  has  thrown  me  into  such  a  train  of 
thinking  upon  our  past  lives,  our  present  courses,  and  our 
future  views,  as  may  be  of  service  to  both,  if  I  can  give  due 
weight  to  the  reflections  that  arise  from  it. 

The  poor  man  made  me  a  visit  on  Thursday,  in  this  my 
melancholy  attendance.  He  began  with  complaints  of  his 
ill  health  and  spirits,  his  hectic  cough,  and  his  increased 
malady  of  spitting  blood;  and  then  led  to  his  story. 

A  confounded  one  it  is;  and  which  highly  aggravates 
his  other  maladies :  for  it  has  come  out  that  his  Thomasine 
(who,  truly,  would  be  new  christened,  you  know,  that  her 
name  might  be  nearer  in  sound  to  the  Christian  name  of 
the  man  whom  she  pretended  to  doat  upon),  has  for  many 
years  carried  on  an  intrigue  with  a  fellow  who  had  been 
hostler  to  her  father  (an  innkeeper  at  Darking)  ;  of  whom, 
at  the  expense  of  poor  Belton,  she  has  made  a  gentleman; 
and  managed  it  so,  that  having  the  art  to  make  herself  his 
cashier,  she  has  been  unable  to  account  for  large  sums  which 
he  thought  forthcoming  at  demand,  and  had  trusted  to  her 
custody,  in  order  to  pay  off  a  mortgage  upon  his  parental 
estate  in  Kent,  which  his  heart  had  run  upon  leaving  clear, 
but  which  cannot  now  be  done,  and  will  soon  be  foreclosed. 
And  yet  she  has  so  long  passed  for  his  wife,  that  he  knows 
not  what  to  resolve  upon  about  her;  nor  about  the  two  boys 
he  was  so  fond  of,  supposing  them  to  be  his ;  whereas  now  he 
begins  to  doubt  his  share  in  them. 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  127 

So  KEEPING  don't  do,  Lovelace.  ^Tis  not  the  eligible  life. 
'  A  man  may  Jceep  a  woman,  said  the  poor  fellow  to  me,  but 
'  7iot  his  estate! — Two  interests! — Then,  my  tottering  fab- 
'  ric  ! '  pointing  to  his  emaciated  carcass. 

We  do  well  to  value  ourselves  upon  our  liberty,  or,  to  speak 
more  properly,  upon  the  liberties  we  take !  We  had  need 
to  run  down  matrimony  as  we  do,  and  to  make  that  state 
the  subject  of  our  frothy  jests;  when  we  frequently  render 
ourselves  (for  this  of  Tom's  is  not  a  singular  case)  the 
dupes  and  tools  of  women  who  generally  govern  us  (by  arts 
our  wise  heads  penetrate  not)  more  absolutely  than  a  wife 
would  attempt  to  do. 

Let  us  consider  this  point  a  little ;  and  that  upon  our  own 
principles,  as  libertines,  setting  aside  what  is  exacted  from  us 
by  the  laws  of  our  country,  and  its  customs;  which,  never- 
theless, we  cannot  get  over,  till  we  have  got  over  almost  all 
moral  obligations,  as  members  of  society. 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  consider  (we,  who  are  in  posses- 
sion of  estates  by  legal  descent)  how  we  should  have  liked 
to  have  been  such  naked  destitute  varlets,  as  we  must  have 
been,  had  our  fathers  been  as  wise  as  ourselves ;  and  despised 
matrimony  as  we  do — and  then  let  us  ask  ourselves,  if  we 
ought  not  to  have  the  same  regard  for  our  posterity,  as  we 
are  glad  our  fathers  had  for  theirs? 

But  this,  perhaps,  is  too  moral  a  consideration. — To  pro- 
ceed therefore  to  those  considerations  which  will  be  more 
striking  to  us:  How  can  we  reasonably  expect  economy  or 
frugality  (or  anything  indeed  but  riot  and  waste)  from 
creatures  who  have  an  interest,  and  must  therefore  have 
views,  different  from  our  own? 

They  know  the  uncertain  tenure  (our  fickle  humours)  by 
which  they  hold :  and  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  supposing  them 
to  be  provident  harlots,  that  they  should  endeavour,  if  they 
have  the  power,  to  lay  up  against  a  rainy  day?  or,  if  they 
have  not  the  power,  that  they  should  squander  all  they  can 
come  at,  when  they  are  sure  of  nothing  but  the  present  hour; 
and  when  the  life  they  live,  and  the  sacrifices  they  have 
made,  put  conscience  and  honour  out  of  the  question? 


128  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

AVTiereas  a  wife,  having  the  same  family  interest  with  her 
husband,  lies  not  under  either  the  same  apprehensions  or 
temptations;  and  has  not  broken  through  (of  necessity,  at 
least,  has  not)  those  restraints  which  education  has  fastened 
upon  her :  and  if  she  make  a  private  purse,  which  we  are  told 
by  anti-matrimonialists,  all  wives  love  to  do,  and  has  chil- 
dren, it  goes  all  into  the  same  family  at  the  long-run. 

Then  as  to  the  great  article  of  fidelity  to  your  bed. — Are 
not  women  of  family,  who  are  well  educated,  under  greater 
restraints  than  creatures,  who,  if  they  ever  had  reputation, 
sacrifice  it  to  sordid  interest,  or  to  more  sordid  appetite, 
the  moment  they  give  up  to  you?  Does  not  the  example 
you  furnish,  of  having  succeeded  with  her,  give  encourage- 
ment for  others  to  attempt  her  likewise?  For  with  all  her 
blandishments,  can  any  man  be  so  credulous,  or  so  vain,  as 
to  believe  that  the  woman  he  could  persuade,  another  may 
not  prevail  upon? 

Adultery  is  so  capital  a  guilt,  that  even  rakes  and  liber- 
tines, if  not  wholly  abandoned,  and  as  I  may  say,  invited  by 
a  woman's  levity,  disavow  and  condemn  it:  but  here,  in 
a  state  of  keeping,  a  woman  is  in  no  danger  of  incu.rring 
{legally,  at  least)  that  guilt;  and  you  yourself  have  broken 
through  and  overthrown  in  her  all  the  fences  and  boundaries 
of  moral  honesty,  and  the  modesty  and  reserves  of  her  sex. 
And  what  tie  should  hold  her  against  inclination,  or  interest  ? 
And  what  shall  deter  an  attempter? 

While  a  husband  has  this  security  from  legal  sanctions, 
that  if  his  wife  be  detected  in  a  criminal  conversation  with 
a  man  of  fortune  (the  most  likely  by  bribes  to  seduce  her), 
he  may  recover  very  great  damages,  and  procure  a  divorce 
besides:  which,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ignominy,  is  a  con- 
sideration that  must  have  some  force  upon  both  parties. 
And  a  wife  must  be  vicious  indeed,  and  a  reflection  upon 
a  man's  own  choice,  who,  for  the  sake  of  change,  and  where 
there  are  no  qualities  to  seduce,  nor  affluence  to  corrupt, 
will  run  so  many  hazards  to  injure  her  husband  in  the  ten- 
derest  of  all  points. 

But  there  are  difficulties  in  procuring  a  divorce — [and  so 


CLARISSA    EARLOWE.  129 

there  ought] — and  none,  says  the  rake,  in  parting  with  a 
mistress  whenever  you  suspect  her;  or  whenever  you  are 
weary  of  her,  and  have  a  mind  to  change  her  for  another. 

But  must  not  the  man  be  a  brute  indeed,  who  can  cast 
off  a  woman  whom  he  has  seduced  [if  he  take  her  from 
the  town,  that's  another  thing],  without  some  flagrant 
reason;  something  that  will  better  justify  him  to  himself, 
as  well  as  to  her,  and  to  the  world,  than  mere  power  and 
novelty? 

But  I  don't  see,  if  we  judge  by  fact,  and  by  the  practice 
of  all  we  .have  been  acquainted  with  of  the  keeping-class, 
that  we  know  how  to  part  with  them  when  we  have  them. 

That  we  know  we  can  if  we  will,  is  all  we  have  for  it : 
and  this  leads  us  to  bear  many  things  from  a  mistress,  which 
we  would  not  from  a  wife.  But  if  we  are  good-natured 
and  humane:  if  the  woman  has  art:  [and  what  woman  wants 
it,  who  has  fallen  by  art?  and  to  whose  precarious  situation 
art  is  so  necessary  ?]  if  you  have  given  her  the  credit  of  being 
called  by  your  name:  if  you  have  a  settled  place  of  abode, 
and  have  received  and  paid  visits  in  her  company,  as  your 
wife:  if  she  has  brought  you  children — you  will  allow  that 
these  are  strong  obligations  upon  you  in  the  world's  eye, 
as  well  as  to  your  own  heart,  against  tearing  yourself  from 
such  close  connections.  She  will  stick  to  you  as  your  skin: 
and  it  will  be  next  to  flaying  yourself  to  cast  her  off. 

Even  if  there  be  cause  for  it,  by  infidelity,  she  will  have 
managed  ill,  if  she  have  not  her  defenders.  Nor  did  I  ever 
know  a  cause  or  a  person  so  had  as  to  want  advocates^ 
either  from  ill-will  to  the  one,  or  pity  to  the  other:  and  you 
will  then  be  thought  a  hard-hearted  miscreant:  and  even 
were  she  to  go  off  without  credit  to  herself,  she  will  leave 
you  as  little;  especially  with  all  those  whose  good  opinion  a 
man  would  wish  to  cultivate. 

Well,  then,  shall  this  poor  privilege,  that  we  may  part 
with  a  woman  if  we  will,  be  deemed  a  balance  for  the  other 
inconveniences?  Shall  it  be  thought  by  us,  who  are  men 
of  family  and  fortune,  an  equivalent  for  giving  up  equality 
of  degree;  and  taking  for  the  partner  of  our  bed,  and  very 


130  THE   HISTORY    OF 

probably  more  than  the  partner  in  our  estates  (to  the  breach 
of  all  family  rule  and  order),  a  low-born,  a  low-educated 
creature,  who  has  not  brought  anything  into  the  common 
stock ;  and  can  possibly  make  no  returns  for  the  solid  benefits 
she  receives,  but  those  libidinous  ones,  which  a  man  cannot 
boast  of,  but  to  his  disgrace,  nor  think  of,  but  to  the  shame 
of  loth^ 

Moreover,  as  the  man  advances  in  years,  the  fury  of  his 
libertinism  will  go  off.  He  will  have  different  aims  and  pur- 
suits, which  will  diminish  his  appetite  to  ranging,  and  make 
such  a  regular  life  as  the  matrimonial  and  family  life,  pala- 
table to  him,  and  every  day  more  palatable. 

If  he  has  children,  and  has  reason  to  think  them  liis,  and 
if  his  lewd  courses  have  left  him  any  estate,  he  will  have 
cause  to  regret  the  restraint  his  boasted  liberty  has  laid  him 
under,  and  the  valuable  privilege  it  has  deprived  him  of; 
when  he  finds  that  it  must  descend  to  some  relation,  for 
whom,  whether  near  or  distant,  he  cares  not  one  farthing; 
and  who  perhaps  (if  a  man  of  virtue)  has  held  him  in  the 
utmost  contempt  for  his  dissolute  life. 

And  were  we  to  suppose  his  estate  in  his  power  to  bequeath 
as  he  pleases;  why  should  a  man  resolve,  for  the  gratifying 
of  his  foolish  humour  only,  to  bastardise  his  race?  Why 
should  he  wish  to  expose  his  children  to  the  scorn  and 
insults  of  the  rest  of  the  world?  Why  should  he,  whether 
they  are  sons  or  daughters,  lay  them  under  the  necessity  of 
complying  with  proposals  of  marriage,  either  inferior  as  to 
fortune,  or  unequal  as  to  age?  Why  should  he  deprive  the 
children  he  loves,  who  themselves  may  be  guilty  of  no  fault, 
of  the  respect  they  would  wish  to  have,  and  to  deserve;  and 
of  the  opportunity  of  associating  themselves  with  proper, 
that  is  to  say,  with  reputable  company?  and  why  should  he 
make  them  think  themselves  under  obligation  to  every  person 
of  character,  who  will  vouchsafe  to  visit  them?  What  little 
reason,  in  a  word,  would  such  children  have  to  bless  their 
father's  obstinate  defiance  of  the  laws  and  customs  of  his 
country;  and  for  giving  them  a  mother,  of  whom  they  could 
not  think  with  honour;  to  whose  crime  it  was  that  they  owed 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  131 

their  very  beings,  and  whose  example  it  was  their  duty  to 
shun? 

If  the  education  and  morals  of  these  children  are  left  to 
chance,  as  too  generally  they  are  (for  the  man  who  has 
humanity  and  a  feeling  heart,  and  who  is  capable  of  fond- 
ness for  his  offspring,  I  take  it  for  granted  will  marry),  the 
case  is  still  worse;  his  crime  is  perpetuated,  as  I  may  say, 
by  his  children:  and  the  sea,  the  army,  perhaps  the  high- 
way for  the  boys;  the  common  for  the  girls;  too  often  point 
out  the  way  to  a  worse  catastrophe. 

What  therefore,  upon  the  whole,  do  we  get  by  treading 
in  these  crooked  paths,  but  danger,  disgrace,  and  a  too  late 
repentance  ? 

And  after  all,  do  we  not  frequently  become  the  cullies  of 
our  own  libertinism;  sliding  into  the  very  state  ^vith  those 
half-worn-out  doxies,  which  perhaps  we  might  have  entered 
into  with  their  ladies;  at  least  with  their  superiors  both  in 
degree  and  fortune?  and  all  the  time  lived  handsomely  like 
ourselves;  not  sneaking  into  holes  and  corners;  and  when 
we  crept  abroad  with  our  women,  looking  about  us,  and  at 
every  one  that  passed  us,  as  if  we  were  confessedly  account- 
able to  the  censures  of  all  honest  people. 

My  cousin  Tony  Jenyns,  thou  knewest.  He  had  not  the 
actively  mischievous  spirit,  that  thou,  Belton,  Mowbray, 
Tourville,  and  myself  have:  but  he  imbibed  the  same  no- 
tions we  do,  and  carried  them  into  practice. 

How  did  he  prate  against  wedlock !  how  did  he  strut  about 
as  a  wit  and  a  smart!  and  what  a  wit  and  a  smart  did  all 
the  boys  and  girls  of  our  family  (myself  among  the  rest,  then 
an  urchin)  think  him,  for  the  airs  he  gave  himself  ? — Marry ! 
'No,  not  for  the  world;  what  man  of  sense  would  bear  the 
insolences,  the  petulances,  the  expensiveness  of  a  wife !  He 
could  not  for  the  heart  of  him  think  it  tolerable,  that  a 
woman  of  equal  rank  and  fortune,  and,  as  it  might  happen, 
superior  talents  to  his  own,  should  look  upon  herself  to  have 
a  right  to  share  the  benefit  of  that  fortune  which  she  brought 
him. 

So,  after  he  had  fluttered  about  the  town  for  two  or  three 
Vol.  IV— 11. 


133  THE   HISTORY    OF 

years,  in  all  which  time  he  had  a  better  opinion  of  himself 
than  anybody  else  had,  what  does  he  do,  but  enter  upon  an 
affair  with  his  fencing-master's  daughter? 

He  succeeds;  takes  private  lodgings  for  her  at  Hackney; 
visits  her  by  stealth;  both  of  them  tender  of  reputations 
that  were  extremehj  tender,  but  which  neither  had  quite 
given  up;  for  rakes  of  either  sex  are  always  the  last  to 
condemn  or  cry  down  themselves :  visited  by  nobody,  nor 
visiting:  the  life  of  a  thief,  or  of  a  man  beset  by  creditors, 
afraid  to  look  out  of  his  own  house,  or  to  be  seen  abroad 
with  her.  And  thus  went  on  for  twelve  years,  and  though 
he  had  a  good  estate,  hardly  making  both  ends  meet;  for 
though  no  glare,  there  was  no  economy;  and  beside,  he  had 
every  year  a  child,  and  very  fond  of  his  children  was  he. 
But  none  of  them  lived  above  three  years.  And  being  now, 
on  the  death  of  the  dozenth,  grown  as  dully  sober,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  real  husband,  his  good  Mrs.  Thomas  (for  he  had 
not  permitted  her  to  take  his  own  name)  prevailed  upon 
him  to  think  the  loss  of  their  children  a  judgment  upon  the 
parents  for  their  wicked  way  of  life  [a  time  will  come,  Love- 
lace, if  we  live  to  advanced  years,  in  which  reflection  will 
take  hold  of  the  enfeebled  mind]  ;  and  then  it  was  not  dif- 
ficult for  his  woman  to  induce  him,  by  way  of  compounding 
with  Heaven,  to  marry  her.  When  this  was  done,  he  had 
leisure  to  sit  down,  and  contemplate;  and  to  recollect  the 
many  offers  of  persons  of  family  and  fortune  which  he  had 
declined  in  the  prime  of  life :  his  expenses  equal  at  least : 
his  reputation  not  only  less,  but  lost:  his  enjoyments  stolen: 
his  partnership  unequal,  and  such  as  he  had  always  been 
ashamed  of.  But  the  woman  said,  that  after  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  cohabitation,  Tony  did  an  honest  thing  by  her. 
And  that  was  all  my  poor  cousin  got  by  making  his  old 
mistress  his  new  wife — not  a  drum,  not  a  trumpet,  not  a  fife, 
not  a  tabret,  nor  the  expectation  of  a  new  joy  to  animate 
him  on ! 

What  Belton  will  do  with  his  Thomasine  I  know  not! 
nor  care  I  to  advise  him:  for  I  see  the  poor  fellow  does  not 
like  that  anybody  should  curse  her  but  himself.     This  he 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  133 

does  very  heartily.  And  so  low  is  he  reduced,  that  he  blubbers 
over  the  reflection  upon  his  past  fondness  for  her  cubs,  and 
upon  his  present  doubts  of  their  being  his :  '  What  a  damned 
'  thing  is  it,  Belf  ord,  if  Tom  and  Hal  should  be  the  hostler 
'  dog's  puppies  and  not  mine  ! ' 

Very  true !  and  I  think  the  strong  health  of  the  chubby- 
faced  muscular  whelps  confirms  the  too  great  probability. 

But  I  say  not  so  to  him. 

You,  he  says,  are  such  a  gay,  lively  mortal,  that  this  sad 
tale  would  make  no  impression  upon  you:  especially  now 
that  your  whole  heart  is  engaged  as  it  is.  Mowbray  would 
be  too  violent  upon  it:  he  has  not,  he  says,  a  feeling  heart. 
Tourville  has  no  discretion :  and,  a  pretty  jest !  although 
he  and  his  Thomasine  lived  without  reputation  in  the  Avorld 
(people  guessing  that  they  were  not  married,  notwithstand- 
ing she  went  by  his  name),  yet  'he  would  not  too  much  dis- 

*  credit  the  cursed  ingrate  neither  ! ' 

Could  a  man  act  a  weaker  part,  had  he  been  really  mar- 
ried ;  and  were  he  sure  he  was  going  to  separate  from  the 
mother  of  his  own  children  ? 

I  leave  this  as  a  lesson  upon  thy  heart,  without  making 
any   application :    only   with   this   remark,   '  That   after   we 

*  libertines  have  indulged  our  licentious  appetites,  reflecting 
'  (in  the  conceit  of  our  vain  hearts),  both  with  our  lips  and 
'  by  our  lives,  upon  our  ancestors  and  the  good  old  ways,  we 

*  find   out,   when   we   come   to   years   of   discretion,    if   we 

*  live  till  then  (what  all  who  knew  us  found  out  before,  that 
'is  to  say,  we  find  out),  our  own  despicable  folly;  that  those 

*  good  old  ways  would  have  been  best  for  us,  as  well  as  for 
'  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  that  in  every  step  we  have  de- 
'  viated  from  them  we  have  only  exposed  our  vanity  and  our 
'  ignorance  at  the  same  time.' 

J.  Belford. 


134  THE   HISTORY    OF 

LETTER  XXXII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Saturday,  May  20. 

I  AM  pleased  with  the  sober  reflection  with  which  thou  con- 
ciudest  thy  last ;  and  I  thank  thee  for  it.  Poor  Belton ! — 
1  did  not  think  his  Thomasine  would  have  proved  so  very 
a  devil.  But  this  must  everlastingly  be  the  risk  of  a  keeper, 
who  takes  up  with  a  low-bred  girl.  This  I  never  did.  Nor 
had  I  occasion  to  do  it.  Such  a  one  as  I,  Jack,  needed  only, 
till  now,  to  shake  the  stateliest  tree,  and  the  mellowed  fruit 
dropt  into  my  mouth: — always  of  Montaigne's  taste  thou 
knowest: — thought  it  a  glory  to  subdue  a  girl  of  family. — 
More  truly  delightful  to  me  the  seduction  progress  than 
the  crowned  act :  for  that's  a  vapour,  a  bubble !  and  most  cor- 
dially do  I  thank  thee  for  thy  indirect  hint,  that  I  am  right 
in  my  present  pursuit. 

From  such  a  woman  as  Miss  Harlowe,  a  man  is  secured 
from  all  the  inconveniences  thou  expatiatest  upon. 

Once  more,  therefore,  do  I  thank  thee,  Belford,  for  thy 
approbation! — A  man  need  not,  as  thou  sayest,  sneak  into 
holes  and  corners,  and  shun  the  day,  in  the  company  of  such 
a  woman  as  this.  How  friendly  in  thee,  thus  to  abet  the 
favourite  purpose  of  my  heart ! — nor  can  it  be  a  disgrace  to 
me,  to  permit  such  a  lady  to  be  called  by  my  name ! — nor 
shall  I  be  at  all  concerned  about  the  world's  censure,  if  I 
live  to  the  years  of  discretion,  which  thou  mentionest,  should 
I  be  taken  in,  and  prevailed  upon  to  tread  with  her  the  good 
old  path  of  my  ancestors. 

A  blessing  on  thy  heart,  thou  honest  fellow !  I  thought 
thou  wert  in  jest,  and  but  acquitting  thyself  of  an  engage- 
ment to  Lord  M.  when  thou  wert  pleading  for  matrimony 
in  behalf  of  this  lady ! — It  could  not  be  principle,  I  knew, 
in  thee:  it  could  not  be  compassion — a  little  envy  indeed 
I  suspected ! — But  now  I  see  thee  once  more  thyself :  and 
once  more,  say  I,  a  blessing  on  thy  heart,  thou  true  friend, 
and  very  honest  fellow ! 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  135 

Now  will  I  proceed  with  courage  in  all  my  schemes,  and 
oblige  thee  with  the  continued  narrative  of  my  progressions 
towards  bringing  them  to  effect! — but  I  could  not  forbear 
to  interrupt  my  story,  to  show  my  gratitude. 


LETTER  XXXIII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

And  now  will  I  favour  thee  with  a  brief  account  of  our 
present  situation. 

From  the  highest  to  the  lowest  we  are  all  extremely  happy. 
— Dorcas  stands  well  in  her  lady's  graces.  Polly  has  asked 
her  advice  in  her  relation  to  a  courtship  affair  of  her  own. 
No  oracle  ever  gave  better.  Sally  has  had  a  quarrel  with 
her  woollendraper ;  and  made  my  charmer  lady-chancellor 
in  it.  She  blamed  Sally  for  behaving  tyrannically  to  a  man 
who  loves  her.  Dear  creature !  to  stand  against  a  glass,  and 
to  shut  her  eyes  because  she  will  not  see  her  face  in  it ! — 
Mrs.  Sinclair  has  paid  her  court  to  so  unerring  a  judge,  by 
requesting  her  advice  with  regard  to  both  nieces. 

This  the  way  we  have  been  in  for  several  days  with  the 
people  below.  Yet  sola  generally  at  her  meals,  and  seldom 
at  other  times  in  their  company.  They  now,  used  to  her  ways 
{^perseverance  must  conquer'],  never  press  her;  so  when  they 
meet,  all  is  civility  on  both  sides.  Even  married  people, 
I  believe.  Jack,  prevent  abundance  of  quarrels,  by  seeing  one 
another  hut  seldom. 

But  how  stands  it  between  thyself  and  the  lady,  methinka 
thou  askest,  since  her  abrupt  departure  from  thee,  and  iin- 
dutiful  repulse  of  Wednesday  morning? 

Why,  pretty  well  in  the  main.  Nay,  very  well.  For  why? 
the  dear  saucy-face  knows  not  how  to  help  herself.  Can  fly 
to  no  other  protection.  And  has,  besides,  overheard  a  con- 
versation [who  would  have  thought  she  had  been  so  near?] 


136  THE   HISTORY    OF 

which  passed  between  Mrs.  Sinclair,  Miss  Martin,  and  my- 
self, that  very  Wednesday  afternoon;  which  has  set  her  heart 
at  ease  with  respect  to  several  doubtful  points. 

Such  as,  particularly,  '  Mrs.  Fretchville's  unhappy  state  of 

*  mind — most  humanely  pitied  by  Miss  Martin,  who  knows 
'  her  very  well — the  husband  she  has  lost,  and  herself   (as 

*  Sally  says),  lovers  from  their  cradles.    Pity  from  one  begets 

*  pity  from  another,  be  the  occasion  for  it  either  strong  or 
'  weak ;  and  so  many  circumstances  were  given  to  poor  Mrs, 

*  Fretchville's  distress,  that  it  was  impossible  but  my  beloved 
'  must  extremely  pity  /ler  whom  the  less  tender-hearted  Miss 
'  Martin  gi-eatly  pitied. 

'  My  Lord  M.'s  gout  his  only  hindrance  from  visiting  my 

*  spouse.  Lady  Betty  and  Miss  Montague  soon  expected  in 
'  to-mi. 

'  My  earnest  desire  signified  to  have  my  spouse  receive 

*  those  ladies  in  her  own  house,  if  Mrs.  Fretchville  would 
'  but  know  her  own  mind ;  and  I  pathetically  lamented  the 

*  delay  occasioned  by  her  not  knowing  it. 

'  My  intention  to  stay  at  Mrs.  Sinclair's,  as  I  said  I  had 
'  told  them  before,  while  my  spouse  resides  in  her  own  house 
'  (when  Mrs.  Fretchville  could  be  brought  to  quit  it),  in 
'  order  to  gratify  her  utmost  punctilio. 

'  My  passion  for  my  beloved  (which,  as  I  told  them  in  a 
'  high  and  fervent  accent,  was  the  truest  that  man  could 
'  have  for  woman)  I  boasted  of.  It  was,  in  short,  I  said,  of 
'  the  true  platonic  Tcind;  or  I  had  no  notion  of  what  platonic 
'  love  was.' 

So  it  is.  Jack;  and  must  end  as  platonic  love  generally 
does  end. 

'  Sally  and  Mrs.  Sinclair  next  praised,  hut  not  grossly,  my 
beloved.  Sally  particularly  admired  her  purity;  called  it 
exemplary;  j^et  (to  avoid  suspicion)  expressed  her  thoughts 
that  she  was  rather  over-nice,  if  she  might  presume  to  say 
so  before  me.  But  nevertheless  she  applauded  me  for  the 
strict  observation  I  made  of  my  vow. 
'  I  more  freely  blamed  her  reserves  to  me ;  called  her  cruel ; 

*  inveighed  against  her  relations ;  doubted  her  love.     Every 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  137 

favour  I  asked  of  her  denied  me.  Yet  my  behaviour  to  her 
as  pure  and  delicate  when  alone,  as  when  before  them. 
Hinted  at  something  that  had  passed  between  us  that  very 
day,  that  showed  her  indifference  to  me  in  so  strong  a  light, 
that  I  could  not  bear  it.  But  that  I  would  ask  her  for  her 
company  to  the  play  of  Venice  Preserved,  given  out  for 
Saturday  night  as  a  benefit-play;  the  prime  actors  to  be 
in  it;  and  this,  to  see  if  I  were  to  be  denied  every  favour. 
— Yet,  for  my  own  part,  I  loved  not  tragedies;  though  she 
did,  for  the  sake  of  the  instruction,  the  warning,  and  the 
example  generally  given  in  them. 

'  I  had  too  much  feeling,  I  said.     There  was  enough  in 
the  world  to  make  our  hearts  sad,  without  carrying  grief 
into  our  diversions,  and  making  the  distresses  of  others  our 
own.' 
True  enough,  Belford;  and  I  believe,  generally  speaking, 
that  all  the  men  of  our  cast  are  of  my  mind — They  love  not 
any  tragedies  but  those  in  which  they  themselves  act  the 
parts  of  tyrants  and  executioners;  and  afraid  to  trust  them- 
selves with  serious  and  solemn  reflections,  run  to  comedies, 
in  order  to  laugh  away  compunction  on  the  distresses  they 
have  occasioned,  and  to  find  examples  of  men  as  immoral 
as  themselves.     For  very  few  of  our  comic  performances,  as 
thou  knowest,  give  us  good  ones. — I  answer,  however,  for 
myself — yet  thou,  I  think,  on  recollection,  lovest  to  deal  in 
the  lamentable. 

Sally  answered  for  Polly,  who  was  absent ;  Mrs.  Sinclair  for 
herself,  and  for  all  her  acquaintance,  even  for  Miss  Parting- 
ton, in  preferring  the  comic  to  the  tragic  scenes. — And  I 
believe  they  are  right;  for  the  devil's  in  it,  if  a  confided  in 
rake  does  not  give  a  girl  enough  of  tragedy  in  his  comedy. 
'  I  asked  Sally  to  oblige  my  fair  one  with  her  company. 
'  She  was  engaged  [that  was  right,  thou'lt  suppose] .  I  asked 
'  Mrs.  Sinclair's  leave  for  Polly.  To  be  sure,  she  answered, 
'  Polly  would  think  it  an  honour  to  attend  Mrs.  Lovelace : 
'but  the  poor  thing  was  tender-hearted;  and  as  the  tragedy 
*  was  deep,  would  weep  herself  blind. 

'  Sally,  meantime,  objected  Singleton,  that  I  might  answer 


138  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  the  objection,  and  save  my  beloved  the  trouble  of  making 
'  it,  or  debating  the  point  with  me ;  and  on  this  occasion  I 
'  regretted  that  her  brother's  projects  were  not  laid  aside ; 
'  since,  if  they  had  been  given  up,  I  would  have  gone  in  person 
'  to  bring  up  the  ladies  of  my  family  to  attend  my  spouse. 

'  I  then,  from  a  letter  just  before  received  from  one  in  her 
'  father's  family,  warned  them  of  a  person  who  had  under- 
'  taken  to  find  us  out,  and  whom  I  thus  in  writing  [having 
'  called  for  pen  and  ink]  described,  that  they  might  arm  all 
'  the  family  against  him — "  A  sun-burnt,  pock-f retten  sailor, 
"  ill-looking,  big-boned ;  his  stature  about  six  feet ;  a  heavy 
"  eye,  an  overhanging  brow,  a  deck-treading  stride  in  his 
"  walk ;  a  couteau  generally  by  his  side ;  lips  parched  from 
"  his  gums,  as  if  by  staring  at  the  sun  in  hot  climates ;  a 
"brown  coat;  a  coloured  handkerchief  about  his  neck;  an 
"  oaken  plant  in  his  hand  near  as  long  as  himself,  and  pro- 
"  portionably  thick." 

'  No  questions  asked  by  this  fellow  must  be  answered. 
'  They  should  call  me  to  him.  But  not  let  my  beloved  know 
'  a  tittle  of  this,  so  long  as  it  could  be  helped.  And  I  added, 
'  that  if  her  brother  or  Singleton  came,  and  if  they  behaved 
'civilly,  I  would,  for  her  sake,  be  civil  to  them:  and  in  this 
'  case  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  own  her  marriage,  and 
'  there  could  be  no  pretence  for  violence  on  either  side.  But 
'  most  fervently  I  swore,  that  if  she  were  conveyed  away, 
'  either  by  persuasion  or  force,  I  would  directly,  on  missing 
'  her  but  one  day,  go  to  demand  her  at  Harlowe  Place,  whether 
'  she  were  there  or  not ;  and  if  I  recovered  not  a  sister,  I 
'  would  have  a  brother ;  and  should  find  out  a  captain  of  a 
'  ship  as  well  as  he.' 

And  now.  Jack,  dost  thou  think  she'll  attempt  to  get  from 
me,  do  what  I  will? 

*  Mrs.  Sinclair  began  to  be  afraid  of  mischief  in  her  house 
' — I  was  apprehensive  that  she  would  overdo  the  matter, 
'  and  be  out  of  character.  I  therefore  winked  at  her.  She 
'  primmed ;  nodded,   to  show  she  took  me ;  twanged  out  a 

*  high-ho  through  her  nose,  lapped  one  horse-lip  over  the 

*  other,  and  was  silent.' 


CLARISSA    HAELOWE.  139 

Here's  preparation,  Belf ord ! — Dost  think  I  will  throw  it 
all  away  for  anything  thou  canst  say,  or  Lord  M.  write? — 
NOj  indeed — as  my  charmer  says,  when  she  bridles. 

And  what  must  necessarily  be  the  consequence  of  aU  this 
with  regard  to  my  beloved's  behaviour  to  me?  Canst  thou 
doubt  that  it  was  all  complaisance  next  time  she  admitted 
me  into  her  presence? 

Thursday  we  were  very  happy.  All  the  morning  extremely 
happy.  I  kissed  her  charming  hand. — I  need  not  describe 
to  thee  her  hand  and  arm.  When  thou  sawest  her,  I  took 
notice  that  thy  eyes  dwelt  upon  them  whenever  thou  couldst 
spare  them  from  that  beauty  spot  of  wonders,  her  face — 
fifty  times  kissed  her  hand,  I  believe — once  her  cheek,  in- 
tending her  lip,  but  so  rapturously,  that  she  could  not  help 
seeming  angry. 

Had  she  not  thus  kept  me  at  arm's  length;  had  she  not 
denied  me  those  innocent  liberties  which  our  sex  from  step 
to  step  aspire  to;  could  I  but  have  gained  access  to  her  in 
her  hours  of  heedlessness  and  dishabille  [for  full  dress  creates 
dignity,  augments  consciousness,  and  compels  distance]  ;  we 
had  familiarised  to  each  other  long  ago.  But  keep  her  up 
ever  so  late,  meet  her  ever  so  early,  by  breakfast  time  she 
is  dressed  for  the  day,  and  at  her  earliest  hour,  as  nice  as 
others  dressed.  All  her  forms  thus  kept  up,  wonder  not 
that  I  have  made  so  little  progress  in  the  proposed  trial. — 
But  how  must  all  this  distance  stimulate ! 

Thursday  viorning,  as  I  said,  we  were  extremely  happy 
— about  noon,  she  numbered  the  hours  she  had  been  with 
me;  all  of  them  to  me  but  as  one  minute;  and  desired  to 
be  left  to  herself.  I  was  loth  to  comply:  but  observing  the 
sunshine  begin  to  shut  in,  I  yielded. 

I  dined  out.  Ecturning,  I  talked  of  the  house,  and  of 
Mrs.  Fretchville — had  seen  Mennell — had  pressed  him  to 
get  the  widow  to  quit:  she  pitied  ]\Irs.  Fretchville  [another 
good  effect  of  the  overheard  conversation] — had  written  to 
Lord  M.  expected  an  answer  soon  from  him.  I  was  admitted 
to  sup  with  her.     I  urged  for  her  approbation  or  correction. 


140  THE   HISTORY    OF 

of  my  written  terms.    She  again  promised  an  answer  as  soon 
as  she  had  heard  from  Miss  Howe. 

Then  I  pressed  for  her  company  to  the  play  on  Saturday 
night.  She  made  objections,  as  I  had  foreseen:  her  brother's 
projects,  warmth  of  the  weather,  &c.  But  in  such  a  manner, 
as  if  half  afraid  to  disoblige  me  [another  happy  effect  of  the 
overheard  conversation].  I  soon  got  over  these,  therefore; 
and  she  consented  to  favour  me. 

Friday  passed  as  the  day  before. 

Here  were  two  happy  days  to  both.  Why  cannot  I  make 
every  day  equally  happy  ?  It  looks  as  if  it  were  in  my  power 
to  do  so.  Strange,  I  should  thus  delight  in  teasing  a  woman 
I  so  dearly  love !  I  must,  I  doubt,  have  something  in  my 
temper  like  Miss  Howe,  who  loves  to  plague  the  man  who 
puts  himself  in  her  power. — But  I  could  not  do  thus  by  such 
an  angel  as  this,  did  I  not  believe  that,  after  her  probation 
time  shall  be  expired,  and  if  she  be  not  to  be  brought  to 
cohabitation  (my  darling  view),  I  shall  reward  her  as  she 
wishes. 

Saturday  is  half  over.  We  are  equally  happy — preparing 
for  the  play.  Polly  has  offered  her  company,  and  is  accepted. 
I  have  directed  her  where  to  weep :  and  this  not  only  to 
show  her  humanity  [a  weeping  eye  indicates  a  gentle  heart], 
but  to  have  a  pretence  to  hide  her  face  with  a  fan  or  hand- 
kerchief.— Yet  Polly  is  far  from  being  every  man's  girl ;  and 
we  shall  sit  in  the  gallery  greenbox. 

The  woes  of  others,  so  well  represented  as  those  of  Belvidera 
particularly  will  be,  must,  I  hope,  ui^ock  and  open  my 
charmer's  heart.  Whenever  I  have  been  able  to  prevail 
upon  a  girl  to  permit  me  to  attend  her  to  a  play,  I  have 
thought  myself  sure  of  her.  The  female  heart  (all  gentle- 
ness and  harmony  by  nature)  expands,  and  forgets  its  forms, 
when  its  attention  is  carried  out  of  itself  at  an  agreeable  or 
affecting  entertainment — music,  and  perhaps  a  collation 
afterwards,  co-operating. 

Indeed  I  have  no  hope  of  such  an  effect  here;  but  I  have 
more  than  one  end  to  answer  by  getting  her  to  a  play.  To 
name  but  one — Dorcas  has  a  master-Jcey,  as  I  have  told  thee. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  141 

— But  it  were  worth  while  to  carry  her  to  the  play  of  Venice 
Preserved,  were  it  but  to  show  her  that  there  have  been  and 
may  be,  much  deeper  distresses  than  she  can  possibly  know. 
Thus  exceedingly  happy  are  we  at  present.  I  hope  we 
shall  not  find  any  of  Nat.  Lee's  left-handed  gods  at  work, 
to  dash  our  bowl  of  joy  with  wormwood. 

E.  Lovelace. 


LETTER  XXXIV. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Hotue. 

Friday,  May  19. 

I  WOULD  not,  if  I  could  help  it,  be  so  continually  brood- 
ing over  the  dark  and  gloomy  face  of  my  condition  [all 
nature,  you  know,  my  dear,  and  everything  in  it,  has  a 
bright  and  a  gloomy  side]  as  to  be  thought  unable  to  enjoy 
a  more  hopeful  prospect.  And  this,  not  only  for  my  own 
sake,  but  for  yours,  who  take  such  generous  concern  in  all 
that  befalls  me. 

Let  you  tell  me  then,  my  dear,  that  I  have  known  four- 
and-twenty  hours  together  not  unhappy  ones,  my  situation 
considered. 

[She  then  gives  the  particulars  of  the  conversation  which 
she  had  overheard  between  Mr.  Lovelace  and  Mrs.  Sinclaiu 
and  Miss  Martin;  but  accounts  more  minutely  than  he 
had  done  for  the  opportunity  she  had  of  overhearing  it, 
unknown  to   them. 

She  gives  the  reason  she  has  to  be  pleased  with  what  she 
heard  from  each:  but  is  shocked  at  the  measure  he  13 
resolved  to  take,  if  he  misses  her  but  for  one  day.  Yet 
is  pleased  that  he  proposes  to  avoid  aggressive  violence, 
if  her  brother  and  he  meet  in  town.] 

Even  Dorcas,  says  she,  appears  less  exceptionable  to  me 
than  before;  and  I  cannot  but  pity  her  for  her  neglected 


142  THE   HISTORY    OF 

education,  as  it  is  matter  of  so  much  regret  to  herself:  else 
there  would  not  be  much  in  it;  as  the  low  and  illiterate  are 
the  most  useful  people  in  the  commonwealth  (since  such 
constitute  the  labouring  part  of  the  public)  ;  and  as  a  lettered 
education  but  too  generally  sets  people  above  those  servile 
offices  by  which  the  business  of  the  world  is  carried  on. 
Nor  have  I  any  doubt  but  there  are,  take  the  world  through, 
twenty  happy  people  among  the  unlettered,  to  one  among 
those  who  have  had  a  school  education. 

This,  however,  concludes  not  against  learning  or  letters; 
since  one  would  wish  to  lift  to  some  little  distinction,  and 
more  genteel  usefulness,  those  who  have  capacity,  and  whose 
parentage  one  respects,  or  whose  services  one  would  wish  to 
reward. 

Were  my  mind  quite  at  ease,  I  should  enlarge,  perhaps 
not  unusefully,  upon  this  subject;  for  I  have  considered  it 
with  as  much  attention  as  my  years,  and  little  experience 
and  observation,  will  permit. 

But  the  extreme  illiterateness  and  indocility  of  this  maid 
are  surprising,  considering  that  she  wants  not  inquisitive- 
ness,  appears  willing  to  learn,  and  in  other  respects,  has 
quick  parts.  This  confirms  to  me  what  I  have  heard  re- 
marked, that  there  is  a  docihle  season,  a  learning-time,  as 
I  may  say,  for  every  person,  in  which  the  mind  may  be  led, 
step  by  step,  from  the  lower  to  the  higher  (year  by  year), 
to  improvement.  How  industriously  ought  these  seasons,  as 
they  offer,  to  be  taken  hold  of  by  tutors,  parents  and  other, 
friends,  to  whom  the  cultivation  of  the  genius  of  children 
and  youth  is  committed;  since,  one  elapsed,  and  no  foun- 
dation laid,  they  hardly  ever  return! — And  yet  it  must  be 
confessed  that  there  are  some  geniuses,  which,  like  some 
fruits,  ripen  not  till  late.  And  industry  and  perseverance 
will  do  prodigious  things — but  for  a  learner  to  have  those 
first  rudiments  to  master  at  twenty  years  of  age,  suppose, 
which  others  are  taught,  and  they  themselves  might  have 
attained  at  ten,  what  an  up-hill  labour? 

These  kind  of  observations  you  have  always  wished  me 
to  intersperse,  as  they  arise  to  my  thoughts.    But  it  is  a  sign 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  143 

that  my  prospects  are  a  little  mended,  or  I  should  not, 
among  so  many  more  interesting  ones  that  my  mind  has 
been  of  late  filled  with,  have  had  heart's  ease  enough  to 
make  them. 

Let  me  give  you  my  reflections  on  my  more  hopeful 
prospects. 

I  am  now,  in  the  first  place,  better  able  to  account  for 
the  delays  about  the  house  than  I  was  before — Poor  Mrs. 
Fretchville ! — Though  I  know  her  not,  I  pity  her ! — Next, 
it  looks  well,  that  he  had  apprised  the  women  (before  this 
conversation  with  them)  of  his  intention  to  stay  in  this 
house,  after  I  was  removed  to  the  other.  By  the  tone  of 
his  voice  he  seemed  concerned  for  the  appearance  this  new 
delay  would  have  with  me. 

So  handsomely  did  Miss  Martin  express  herself  of  me, 
that  I  am  sorry,  methinks,  that  I  judged  so  hardly  of  her, 
when  I  first  came  hither — free  people  may  go  a  great  way, 
but  not  all  the  way:  and  as  such  are  generally  unguarded, 
precipitate,  and  thoughtless,  the  same  quickness,  changeable- 
ness,  and  suddenness  of  spirit,  as  I  may  call  it,  may  intervene 
(if  the  heart  be  not  corrupted)  to  recover  them  to  thought 
and  duty. 

His  reason  for  declining  to  go  in  person  to  bring  up  the 
ladies  of  his  family,  while  my  brother  and  Singleton  continue 
their  machinations,  carries  no  bad  face  with  it;  and  one 
may  the  rather  allow  for  their  expectations,  that  so  proud 
a  spirit  as  his  should  attend  them  for  this  purpose,  as  he 
speaks  of  them  sometimes  as  persons  of  punctilio. 

Other  reasons  I  will  mention  for  my  being  easier  in  my 
mind  than  I  was  before  I  overheard  this  conversation. 

Such  as  the  advice  he  has  received  in  relation  to  Single- 
ton's mate;  which  agrees  but  too  well  with  what  you,  my 
dear,  wrote  to  me  in  yours  of  May  the  10th.* 

His  cautions  to  the  servants  about  the  sailor,  if  he  should 
come  and  make  inquiries  about  us. 

His  resolution  to  avoid  violence,  were  he  to  fall  in  either 
with  my  brother  or  this  Singleton;  and  the  easy  method 
*  See  Letter  XVI.  of  this  volume. 


144  THE   HISTORY    OF 

he  has  chalked  out,  in  this  case,  to  prevent  mischief;  since 
I  need  only  not  to  deny  my  being  his.  But  yet  I  should  be 
exceedingly  unhappy  in  my  own  opinion  to  be  driven  into 
such  a  tacit  acknowledgment  to  any  new  persons,  till  I 
am  so,  although  I  have  been  led  (so  much  against  my  liking) 
to  give  countenance  to  the  belief  of  the  persons  below  that 
we    are   married. 

I  think  myself  obliged,  from  what  passed  between  Mr. 
Lovelace  and  me  on  Wednesday,  and  from  what  I  over- 
heard liim  say,  to  consent  to  go  with  him  to  the  play;  and 
the  rather,  as  he  had  the  discretion  to  propose  one  of  the 
nieces  to  accompany  me. 

I  cannot  but  acknowledge  that  I  am  pleased  to  find  that 
he  has  actually  written  to  Lord  M. 

I  have  promised  to  give  Mr.  Lovelace  an  answer  to  his 
proposals  as  soon  as  I  have  heard  from  you,  my  dear,  on 
the  subject. 

I  hope  that  in  my  next  letter  I  shall  have  reason  to  con- 
firm these  favourable  appearances.  Favourable  I  must  think 
them  in  the  wreck  I  have  suffered. 

I  hope,  that  in  the  trial  which  you  hint  may  happen 
between  me  and  myself  (as  you*  express  it),  if  he  should  so 
behave  as  to  oblige  me  to  leave  him,  I  shall  be  able  to  act 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  bring  no  discredit  upon  myself  in 
your  eye;  and  that  is  all  now  that  I  have  to  wish  for.  But 
if  I  value  him  so  much  as  you  are  pleased  to  suppose  I  do, 
the  trial,  which  you  imagine  will  be  so  difficult  to  me,  will 
not,  I  conceive,  be  upon  getting  from  him,  when  the  means 
to  affect  my  escape  are  lent  me;  but  how  I  shall  behave 
when  I  got  from  him ;  and  if,  like  the  Israelites  of  old,  I  shall 
be  so  weak  as  to  wish  to  return  to  my  Eg}^ptian  bondage. 

I  think  it  will  not  be  amiss,  notwithstanding  the  present 
favourable  appearances,  that  you  should  perfect  the  scheme 
(whatever  it  be)  which  you  tell  me*  you  have  thought  of, 
in  order  to  procure  for  me  an  asylum,  in  case  of  necessity. 
Mr.  Lovelace  is  certainly  a  deep  and  dangerous  man;  and 
it  is  therefore  but  prudence  to  be  watchful,  and  to  be  provided 
*  See  Letter  XXVII.  of  this  volume. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  145 

against  the  worst.  Lord  bless  me,  my  dear,  how  am  I 
reduced ! — Could  I  ever  have  thought  to  be  in  such  a  situa- 
tion, as  to  be  obliged  to  stay  with  a  man,  of  whose  honour 
by  me  I  could  have  but  the  shadoiu  of  a  doubt ! — But  I  will 
look  forward,  and  hope  the  best. 

I  am  certain  that  your  letters  are  safe.  Be  perfectly  easy, 
therefore,  on  that  head. 

Mr.  Lovelace  will  never  be  out  of  my  company  by  hia 
good-will,  otherwise  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  am  mistress  of 
my  goings-out  and  comings-in;  and  did  I  think  it  needful, 
and  were  I  not  afraid  of  my  brother  and  Captain  Singleton, 
I  would  oftener  put  it  to  trial. 


LETTER  XXXV. 

Miss  Howe  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Saturday,  May   20. 

I  DID  not  know,  my  dear,  that  you  deferred  giving  an 
answer  to  Mr.  Lovelace's  proposals  till  you  had  my  opinion 
of  them.  A  particular  hand,  occasionally  going  to  town, 
will  leave  this  at  Wilson's,  that  no  delay  may  be  made  on 
that  account. 

I  never  had  any  doubt  of  the  man's  justice  and  generosity 
in  matters  of  settlement;  and  all  his  relations  are  as  noble 
in  their  spirits  as  in  their  descent:  but  now,  it  may  not  be 
amiss  for  you  to  wait,  to  see  what  returns  my  Lord  makes 
to  his  letter  of  invitation. 

The  scheme  I  think  of  is  this : 

There  is  a  person  whom  I  believe  you  have  seen  with 
me,  her  name  Townsend,  who  is  a  great  dealer  in  Indian 
silks,  Brussels  and  French  laces,  cambrics,  linen,  and  other 
valuable  goods;  which  she  has  a  way  of  coming  at  duty- 
free ;  and  has  a  great  vend  for  them  (  and  for  other  curiosi- 
ties which  she  imports)  in  the  private  families  of  the  gentry 
round  us. 


146  THE   HISTORY    OF 

She  has  her  days  of  being  in  town,  and  then  is  at  a  cham- 
ber she  rents  at  an  inn  in  Southwark,  where  she  keeps  pat- 
terns of  all  her  silks,  and  much  of  her  portable  goods,  for 
the  conveniency  of  her  London  customers.  But  her  place 
of  residence,  and  where  she  has  her  principal  warehouse,  is 
at  Deptford,  for  the  opportunity  of  getting  her  goods  on 
shore. 

She  was  first  brought  to  me  by  my  mother,  to  whom  she 
was  recommended  on  the  supposal  of  my  speedy  marriage, 
'  that  I  might  have  an  opportunity  to  be  as  fine  as  a  princess,' 
was  my  mother's  expression,  '  at  a  moderate  expense.' 

Now,  my  dear,  I  must  own  that  I  do  not  love  to  encourage 
these  contraband  traders.  What  is  it,  but  bidding  defiance 
to  the  laws  of  our  country,  when  we  do,  and  hurting  fair 
traders;  and  at  the  same  time  robbing  our  prince  of  his 
legal  due,  to  the  diminution  of  those  duties  which  possibly 
must  be  made  good  by  new  levies  upon  the  public? 

But,  however,  Mrs.  Townsend  and  I,  though  I  have  not 
yet  had  dealings  with  her,  are  upon  a  very  good  foot  of 
understanding.  She  is  a  sensible  woman;  she  has  been 
abroad,  and  often  goes  abroad  in  the  way  of  her  business, 
and  gives  very  entertaining  accounts  of  all  she  has  seen. 

And  having  applied  to  me  to  recommend  her  to  you  (as 
it  is  her  view  to  be  known  to  young  ladies  who  are  likely 
to  change  their  condition),  I  am  sure  I  can  engage  her  to 
give  you  protection  at  her  house  at  Deptford;  which  she 
says  is  a  populous  village,  and  one  of  the  last,  I  should  think, 
in  which  you  would  be  sought  for.  She  is  not  much  there, 
you  will  believe,  by  the  course  of  her  dealings,  but,  no 
doubt,  must  have  somebody  on  the  spot,  in  whom  she  can 
confide:  and  there,  perhaps,  you  might  be  safe  till  your 
cousin  comes.  And  I  should  not  think  it  amiss  that  you 
write  to  him  out  of  hand.  I  cannot  suggest  to  you  what 
you  should  write.  That  must  be  left  to  your  own  discre- 
tion. For  you  will  be  afraid,  no  doubt,  of  the  consequence 
of  a  variance  between  the  two  men. 

But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  and  were  I  sure  of  getting 
you  safely  out  of  his  hands,  I  will  nevertheless  forgive  you. 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  U7 

were  you  to  make  all  up  with  him,  and  marry  to-morrow. 
Yet  I  will  proceed  with  my  projected  scheme  in  relation  to 
Mrs.  Townsend;  though  I  hope  there  will  be  no  occasion 
to  prosecute  it,  since  your  prospects  seem  to  be  changed, 
and  since  you  have  had  twenty-four  not  unhappy  hours  to- 
gether. How  my  indignation  rises  for  this  poor  consolation 
in  the  courtship  [courtship  must  I  call  it?]  of  such  a  woman ! 
Let  me  tell  you,  my  dear,  that  were  you  once  your  own 
absolute  and  independent  mistress,  I  should  be  tempted, 
notwithstanding  all  I  have  written,  to  wish  you  the  wife  of 
any  man  in  the  world,  rather  than  the  wife  either  of  Lovelace 
or  of  Solmes. 

Mrs.  ToTVTisend,  as  I  have  recollected,  has  two  brothers, 
each  a  master  of  a  vessel;  and  who  knows,  as  she  and  they 
have  concerns  together,  but  that,  in  case  of  need,  you  may 
have  a  whole  ship's  crew  at  your  devotion?  If  Lovelace 
give  you  cause  to  leave  him,  take  no  thought  for  the  people 
at  Harlowe  Place.  Let  them  take  care  of  one  another.  It 
is  a  care  they  are  used  to.  The  law  will  help  to  secure  them. 
The  wretch  is  no  assassin,  no  night-murderer.  He  is  an 
open^  because  a  fearless  enemy;  and  should  he  attempt  any- 
thing that  would  make  him  obnoxious  to  the  laws  of  society, 
you  might  have  a  fair  riddance  of  him,  either  by  flight  or 
the  gallows;  no  matter  which. 

Had  you  not  been  so  minute  in  your  account  of  the  cir- 
cumstances that  attended  the  opportunity  you  had  of  over- 
hearing the  dialogue  between  Mr.  Lovelace  and  two  of  the 
women,  I  should  have  thought  the  conference  contrived  on 
purpose  for  your  ear. 

I  showed  Mr.  Lovelace's  proposals  to  Mr.  Hickman,  who 
had  chambers  once  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  being  designed  for  the 
law,  had  his  elder  brother  lived.  He  looked  so  wise,  so 
proud,  and  so  important,  vipon  the  occasion;  and  wanted  to 
take  so  much  consideration  about  them — would  take  them 
home  if  I  pleased — and  weigh  them  well — and  so  forth — 
and  the  like — and  all  that — that  I  had  no  patience  with 
him,  and  snatched  them  back  with  anger. 

Oh  dear ! — to  be  so  angry,  an't  please  me,  for  his  zeal  I 
Vol.  IV— 12. 


148  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

Yes,  zeal  without  knowledge,  I  said — like  most  other 
zeals — if  there  were  no  objections  that  struck  him  at  once, 
there  were  none. 

So  hasty,  dearest  Madam 

And  so  slow,  un-dearest  sir,  I  could  have  said — But  surely, 
said  I,  with  a  look  which  implied,  Would  you  rebel,  sir! 

He  begged  my  pardon — Saw  no  objection,  indeed! — But 
might  he  be  allowed  once  more 

No  matter — no  matter — I  would  have  shown  them  to  my 
mother,  I  said,  who,  though  of  no  inn  of  court,  knew  more 
of  these  things  than  half  the  lounging  lubbers  of  them; 
and  that  at  first  sight — only  that  she  would  have  been  angry 
at  the  confession  of  our  continued  correspondence. 

But,  my  dear,  let  the  articles  be  drawn  up,  and  engrossed ; 
and  solemnise  upon  them ;  and  there's  no  more  to  be  said. 

Let  me  add  that  the  sailor  fellow  has  been  tampering 
with  my  Kitty,  and  offered  a  bribe,  to  find  where  to  direct 
to  you.  Next  time  he  comes,  I  will  have  him  laid  hold  of; 
and  if  I  can  get  nothing  out  of  him,  will  have  him  drawn 
through  one  of  our  deepest  fish-ponds.  His  attempt  to  cor- 
rupt a  servant  of  mine  will  justify  my  orders. 

I  send  this  letter  away  directly.  But  will  follow  it  by 
another;  which  shall  have  for  its  subject  only  my  mother, 
myself,  and  your  uncle  Antony.  And  as  your  prospects  are 
more  promising  than  they  have  been,  I  will  endeavour  to 
make  you  smile  upon  the  occasion.  For  you  will  be  pleased 
to  know  that  my  mother  has  had  a  formal  tender  from  that 
grey  goose,  which  may  make  her  skill  in  settlements  useful 
to  herself,  were  she  to  encourage  it. 

May  your  prospects  be  still  more  and  more  happy,  prays 

Your  own 
Anna  Howe. 


CLARISSA    UARLOWE.  149 


LETTER  XXXVI. 

Miss  Howe  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Saturday,  Sunday,  May  20,  21. 

Now^  my  dear,  for  the  promised  subject.  You  must  ?iot 
ask  me  how  I  came  by  the  originals  [such  they  really  are] 
that  I  am  going  to  present  you  with:  for  my  mother  would 
not  read  to  me  those  parts  of  your  uncle's  letter  which  bore 
hard  upon  myself,  and  which  leave  him  without  any  title  to 
mercy  from  me :  nor  would  she  let  me  hear  but  what  she 
pleased  of  hers  in  answer;  for  she  has  condescended  to  an- 
swer him — with  a  denial,  however;  but  such  a  denial  as  no 
one  but  an  old  bachelor  would  take  from  a  widow. 

Anybody,  except  myself,  who  could  have  been  acquainted 
with  such  a  fal-lal  courtship  as  this  must  have  been  had  it 
proceeded,  would  have  been  glad  it  had  gone  on:  and  I  dare- 
say, but  for  the  saucy  daughter,  it  had.     My  good  mamma, 
in  that  case,  would  have  been  ten  years  the  younger  for  it, 
perhaps :  and,  could  I  have  but  approved  of  it,  I  should  have 
been  considered  by  her  as  if  ten  5^ears  older  than  I  am: 
since,  very  likely,   it  would  have  been :   '  We  widows,   my 
dear,  know  not  how  to  keep  men  at  a  distance — so  as  to 
give  them  pain,  in  order  to  try  their  love. — You  must  ad- 
vise me,  child:  you  must  teach  me  to  be  cruel — yet  not  too 
cruel  neither — so  as  to  make  a  man  heartless,  who  has 
no  time,  God  wot,  to  throw  away.'     Then  would  my  be- 
haviour to  Mr.  Hickman  have  been  better  liked;  and  my 
mother  would  have  bridled  like  her  daughter. 

Oh,  my  dear,  how  might  we  have  been  diverted  by  the 
practisings  for  the  recovery  of  the  long  forgottens!  could  I 
have  been  sure  that  it  would  have  been  in  my  power  to  have 
put  them  asunder,  in  the  Irish  style,  before  they  had  come 
together.  But  there's  no  trusting  to  the  widow  whose  goods 
and  chattels  are  in  her  own  hands,  addressed  by  an  old 
bachelor  who  has  fine  things,  and  offers  to  leave  her  ten 
thousand  pounds  better  than  he  found  her,  and  sole  mistress, 


150  THE   HISTORY    OF 

besides,  of  all  her  notables!  for  these,  as  you  will  see  by  and 
by,  are  his  proposals. 

The  old  Triton's  address  carries  the  writer's  marks  npon 
the  very  subscription — To  the  equally  amiable  and  worthy 
admired  [there's  for  you!]  Mrs.  Annabella  Howe,  widow, 
the  last  word  added,  I  suppose,  as  Esquire  to  a  man,  as  a 
word  of  honour;  or  for  fear  the  bella  to  Anna,  should  not 
enough  distinguish  the  person  meant  from  the  spinster: 
[vain  hussy,  you'll  call  me,  I  know:]  And  then  follows: — 
These  humbly  present. — Put  down  as  a  memorandum,  I  pre- 
sume, to  make  a  leg,  and  behave  handsomely  at  present- 
ing it,  he  intending,  very  probably,  to  deliver  it  himself. 

And  now  stand  by — to  see 


Enter  Old  Neptune. 

His  head  adorned  with  sea-weed,  and  a  crown  of  cockle- 
shells; as  we  see  him  decked  out  in  Mrs.  Robinson's  ridic- 
ulous grotto. 

Monday,   May    15. 

Madam, — I  did  make  a  sort  of  resolution  ten  years  ago 
never  to  marry.  I  saw  in  other  families,  where  they  lived  best, 
you  will  be  pleased  to  mark  that,  queernesses  I  could  not 
away  with.  Then  liked  well  enough  to  live  single  for  the  sake 
of  my  brother's  family  and  for  one  child  in  it  more  than  the 
rest.  But  that  girl  has  turned  us  all  off  the  hinges;  and 
why  should  I  deny  myself  any  comforts  for  them,  as  will 
not  thank  me  for  so  doing,  I  don't  know. 

So  much  from  my  motives  as  from  self  and  family :  but  the 
dear  Mrs.  Howe  makes  me  go  further. 

I  have  a  very  great  fortune,  I  bless  God  for  it,  all  of  my 
own  getting,  or  most  of  it ;  you  will  be  pleased  to  mark  that ; 
for  I  was  the  youngest  brother  of  three.  You  have  also, 
God  be  thanked,  a  great  estate,  which  you  have  improved 
by  your  own  frugality  and  wise  management.  Frugality, 
let  me  stop  to  say,  is  one  of  the  greatest  virtues  in  this 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  151 

mortal  life,  because  it  enables  us  to  do  justice  to  all,  and 
puts  it  in  our  power  to  benefit  some  by  it,  as  "we  see  they 
deserve. 

You  have  but  one  child;  and  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  have 
never  a  one — all  bachelors  cannot  say  so;  wherefore  your 
daughter  may  be  the  better  for  me,  if  she  will  keep  up  with 
my  humour;  which  was  never  thought  bad:  especially  to 
my  equals.  Servants,  indeed,  I  don't  matter  being  angry 
with,  when  I  please;  they  are  paid  for  bearing  it,  and  too, 
too  often  deserve  it;  as  we  have  frequently  taken  notice  of 
to  one  another.  And,  moreover,  if  we  keep  not  servants  at 
distance,  they  will  be  familiar.  I  always  made  it  a  rule  to 
find  fault,  whether  reasonable  or  not,  that  so  I  might  have 
no  reason  to  find  fault.  Young  women  and  servants  in 
general  (as  worthy  Mr.  Solmes  observes)  are  better  governed 
by  fear  than  love.  But  this  my  humour  as  to  servants  will 
not  affect  either  you  or  Miss,  you  know. 

I  will  make  very  advantageous  settlements;  such  as  any 
common  friend  shall  judge  to  be  so.  But  must  have  all  in 
my  own  power,  while  I  live :  because,  you  know.  Madam, 
it  is  as  creditable  to  the  wife,  as  to  the  husband,  that  it 
should  be  so. 

I  am  not  at  fine  words.  We  are  not  children;  though 
it  is  hoped  we  may  have  some;  for  I  am  a  very  healthy, 
sound  man.  I  bless  God  for  it:  and  never  brought  home 
from  my  voyages  and  travels  a  worser  constitution  than  I 
took  out  with  me.  I  was  none  of  those,  I  will  assure  you. 
But  this  I  will  undertake,  that,  if  you  are  the  survivor,  you 
shall  be  at  the  least  ten  thousand  pounds  the  better  for  me. 
What,  in  the  contrary  case,  I  shall  be  the  better  for  you.  I 
leave  to  you,  as  you  shall  think  my  kindness  to  you  shall 
deserve. 

But  one  thing,  Madam,  I  shall  be  glad  of,  that  Miss  Howe 
might  not  live  with  us  then — [she  need  not  know  I  write 
thus] — ^but  go  home  to  Mr.  Hickman,  as  she  is  upon  the 
point  of  marriage,  I  hear:  and  if  she  behaves  dutifully,  as 
she  should  do,  to  us  both,  she  shall  be  the  better;  for  so  I 
said  before. 


152  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

You  shall  manage  all  things,  both  mine  and  your  own; 
for  I  know  but  little  of  land-matters.  All  my  opposition  to 
you  shall  be  out  of  love,  when  I  think  you  take  too  much 
upon  you  for  your  health. 

It  will  be  very  pretty  for  you,  I  should  think,  to  have  a 
man  of  experience,  in  a  long  winter's  evening,  to  sit  down 
by  you,  and  tell  you  stories  of  foreign  parts,  and  the  cus- 
toms of  the  nations  he  has  consorted  with.  And  I  have 
fine  curiosities  of  the  Indian  growth,  such  as  ladies  love, 
and  some  that  even  my  niece  Clary,  when  she  was  good, 
never  saw.  These,  one  by  one,  as  you  are  kind  to  me 
(which  I  make  no  question  of,  because  I  shall  be  kind  to 
you),  shall  be  all  yours.  Prettier  entertainment  by  much, 
than  sitting  with  a  too  smartish  daughter,  sometimes  out 
of  humour;  and  thwarting,  and  vexing,  as  daughters  will 
(when  women-grown  especially,  as  I  have  heard  you  often 
observe) ;  and  thinl'iing  their  parents  old,  without  paying 
them  the  reverence  due  to  years;  when,  as  in  your  case,  I 
make  no  sort  of  doubt  they  are  young  enough  to  wipe  their 
noses.    You  understand  me.  Madam. 

As  for  me  myself,  it  will  be  very  happy,  and  I  am  de- 
lighted with  the  thinking  of  it,  to  have,  after  a  pleasant 
ride,  or  so,  a  lady  of  like  experience  with  myself  to  come 
home  to,  and  but  one  interest  betwixt  us:  to  reckon  up  our 
comings-in  together;  and  what  this  day  and  this  week  has 
produced — Oh,  how  this  will  increase  love  ! — most  mightily 
will  it  increase  it ! — and  I  believe  I  shall  never  love  you 
enough,  or  be  able  to  show  you  all  my  love. 

I  hope.  Madam,  there  need  not  be  such  maiden  niceties 
and  hangings-off,  as  I  may  call  them,  between  us  (for 
hanging-off  sake),  as  that  you  will  deny  me  a  line  or  two 
to  this  proposal,  written  down,  although  you  would  not 
answer  me  so  readily  when  I  spoke  to  you;  your  daughter 
being,  I  suppose,  hard  by;  for  you  looked  round  you,  as 
if  not  willing  to  be  overheard.  So  I  resolved  to  write: 
that  my  writing  may  stand  as  upon  record  for  my  upright 
meaning;  being  none  of  your  Lovelaces;  you  will  mark 
that,    Madam;    but    a    downright,    true,    honest,    faithful 


CLAEIS8A    EABLOWE.  153 

Englishman.  So  hope  you  will  not  disdain  to  write  a  line 
or  two  to  this  my  proposal:  and  I  shall  look  upon  it  as 
a  great  honour,  I  will  assure  you,  and  be  proud  thereof. 
What  can  I  say  more? — for  you  are  your  own  mistress,  as 
I  am  my  own  master:  and  you  shall  always  be  your  own 
mistress,  be  pleased  to  mark  that;  for  so  a  lady  of  your 
prudence  and  experience  ought  to  be. 

This  is  a  long  letter.  But  the  subject  requires  it;  be- 
cause I  would  not  write  twice  where  once  would  do.  So 
would  explain  my  sense  and  meaning  at  one  time. 

I  have  had  writing  in  my  head  two  whole  months  very 
near;  but  hardly  knew  how  (being  unpractised  in  these  mat- 
ters) to  begin  to  write.    And  now,  good  lady,  be  favourable  to 

Your  most  humble  lover. 

And  obedient  servant. 

Ant.  Harlowe. 

Here's  a  letter  of  courtship,  my  dear! — and  let  me  sub- 
join to  it,  that  if  now,  or  hereafter,  I  should  treat  this 
hideous  lover,  who  is  so  free  with  me  to  my  mother,  with 
asperity,  and  you  should  be  disgusted  at  it,  I  shall  think 
you  don't  give  me  that  preference  in  your  love  which  you 
have  in  mine. 

And  now,  which  shall  I  first  give  you;  the  answer  of 
my  good  mamma;  or  the  dialogue  that  passed  between  the 
widow  mother  and  the  pert  daughter,  upon  her  letting  the 
latter  know  that  she  had  a  love-letter? 

I  thinh  you  shall  have  the  dialogue.  But  let  me  promise 
one  thing;  that  if  you  tliiiik  me  too  free,  you  must  not  let 
it  run  in  your  head  that  I  am  writing  of  your  uncle,  or  of 
my  mother;  but  of  a  couple  of  old  lovers,  no  matter  whom. 
Reverence  is  too  apt  to  be  forgotten  by  children,  where 
the  reverends  forget  first  what  belongs  to  their  own  char- 
acters. A  grave  remark,  and  therefore  at  your  service,  my 
dear. 

Well  then,  suppose  my  mamma  (after  twice  coming  into 


154  THE   HISTORY    OF 

my  closet  to  me,  and  as  aften  going  out,  with  very  meaning 
features,  and  lips  ready  to  burst  open,  but  still  closed,  as  if 
by  compulsion,  a  speech  going  off  in  a  slight  cough,  that 
never  went  near  the  limgs),  grown  more  resolute  the  third 
time  of  entrance,  and  sitting  down  by  me,  thus  begin : 

Mother.  I  have  a  very  serious  matter  to  talk  with  you 
upon,  Nancy,  when  you  are  disposed  to  attend  to  matters 
within  ourselves,  and  not  let  matters  without  ourselves 
wholly  engross  you. 

A  good  selve — ish  speech ! — But  I  thought  that  friend- 
ship, gratitude,  and  humanity,  were  matters  that  ought  to 
be  deemed  of  the  most  intimate  concern  to  us.  But  not 
to  dwell  upon  words. 

Daughter.  I  am  now  disposed  to  attend  to  everything  my 
mamma  is  disposed  to  say  to  me. 

M.  When,  then,  child — why  then,  my  dear — [and  the  good 
lady's  face  looked  so  plump,  so  smooth,  and  so  shining!] — I 
see  you  are  all  attention,  Nancy ! — But  don't  be  surprised ! — 
don't  be  uneasy! — But  I  have — I  have — Where  is  it? — 
[and  yet  it  lay  next  her  heart,  never  another  near  it — so 
no  difficulty  to  have  found  it] — I  have  a  letter,  my  dear! — 
[And  out  from  her  bosom  it  came:  but  she  still  held  it  in 
her  hand.] — I  have  a  letter,  child. — It  is — it  is — it  is  from — 
from  a  gentleman,  I  assure  you! — [lifting  up  her  head,  and 
smiling.] 

There  is  no  delight  to  a  daughter,  thought  I,  in  such  sur- 
prises as  seem  to  be  collecting.  I  will  deprive  my  mother  of 
the  satisfaction  of  making  a  gradual  discovery. 

D.  From  Mr.  Antony  Harlowe,  I  suppose,  Madam? 

M.  [Lips  drawn  closer:  eye  raised]  Why,  my  dear! — I 
cannot  but  own — but  how,  I  wonder,  could  you  think  of 
Mr.  Antony  Harlowe? 

D.  How,  Madam,  could  I  think  of  anybody  elsef 

M.  How  could  you  think  of  anybody  else? — [angry, 
and  drawing  back  her  face].  But  do  you  know  the  sub- 
ject, Nancy? 

D.  You  have  told  it,  Madam,  by  your  manner  of  break- 
ing it  to  me.    But  indeed  I  question  not  that  he  had  two 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  155 

motives  in  his  visits — both  equally  agreeable  to  me;  for  all 
that  family  love  me  dearly. 

M.  JSTo  love  lost,  if  so,  between  you  and  them.  But 
this  \_rising]  is  what  I  get — so  like  your  papa! — I  never 
could  open  my  heart  to  him! 

D.  Dear  Madam,  excuse  me.  Be  so  good  as  to  open 
your  heart  to  me. — I  don't  love  the  Harlowes — but  pray 
excuse  me. 

M.  You  have  put  me  quite  out  with  your  forward  temper 
[angrily  sitting  down  again]. 

D.  I  will  be  all  patience  and  attention.  May  I  be  allowed 
to  read  his  letter? 

M.  I  wanted  to  advise  with  you  upon  it. — But  you  are 
such  a  strange  creature ! — you  are  always  for  answering  one 
before  one  speaks ! 

D.  You'll  be  so  good  as  to  forgive  me.  Madam. — But  I 
thought  everybody  (he  among  the  rest)  knew  that  you  had 
always  declared  against  a  second  marriage. 

M.  And  so  I  have.  But  then  it  was  in  the  mind  I  was 
in.     Things  may  offer 

I  stared. 

M.  Nay,  don't  be  surprised! — I  don't  intend — I  don't 
intend 

D.  Not,  perhaps,  in  the  mind  you  are  in.  Madam. 

M.  Pert  creature!   [rising  again] We  shall  quarrel,  I 

see! — There's  no 

D.  Once  more,  dear  Madam,  I  beg  your  excuse.  I  will 
attend  in  silence. — Pray,  Madam,  sit  down  again — pray  do 
[she  sat  down]. — May  I  see  the  letter? 

No;  there  are  some  things  in  it  you  won't  like. — Your 
temper  is  known,  I  find,  to  be  unhappy.  But  nothing  had 
against  you;  intimations  on  the  contrary,  that  you  shall 
be  the  better  for  him,  if  you  oblige  him. 

Not  a  living  soul  but  the  Harlowes,  I  said,  thought  me 
ill-tempered:  and  I  was  contented  that  they  should,  who 
could  do  as  they  had  done  by  the  most  universally  acknow- 
ledged sweetness  in  the  world. 

Here  we  broke  out  a  little;  but  at  last  she  read  me  some 


156  THE   HISTORY    OF 

of  the  passages  in  the  letter.  But  not  the  most  mightily 
ridiculous;  yet  I  could  hardly  keep  my  countenance  neither, 
especially  when  she  came  to  that  passage  which  mentions 
his  sound  health;  and  at  which  she  stopped;  she  best  knew 
why — But  soon  resuming: 

M.  Well  now,  Nancy,  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it. 

D.  Nay,  pray.  Madam,  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it. 

M.  I  expect  to  be  answered  by  an  answer;  not  by  a 
question !    You  don't  use  to  be  so  shy  to  speak  your  mind. 

D.  Not  when  my  mamma  commands  me  to  do  so. 

M.  Then  speak  it  now. 

D.  "Without  hearing  the  whole  of  the  letter? 

M.  Speak  to  what  you  have  heard. 

D.  Why  then.  Madam you  won't  be  my  mamma  Howe, 

if  you  give  way  to  it. 

M.  I  am  surprised  at  your  assurance,  Nancy! 

D.  I  mean,  Madam,  you  will  then  be  my  mamma  Har- 

LOWE. 

M.  Oh,  dear  heart! — But  I  am  not  a  fool. 

And  her  colour  went  and  came. 

D.  Dear  Madam  [but,  indeed,  I  don't  love  a  Harlowe — 
that's  what  I  mean],  I  am  your  child,  and  must  be  your 
child,  do  what  you  will. 

M.  A  very  pert  one,  I  am  sure,  as  ever  mother  bore ! 
And  you  must  be  my  child,  do  what  I  will! — as  much  as  to 
say,  you  would  not,  if  you  could  help  it,  if  I 

D.  How  could  I  have  such  a  thought! — It  would  be 
forward,  indeed,  if  I  had — when  I  don't  know  what  your 
mind  is  as  to  the  proposal: — when  the  proposal  is  so  very 
advantageous  a  one  too. 

M.  [Looking  a  little  less  discomposed]  why,  indeed,  ten 
thousand  pounds 

D.  And  to  be  sure  of  outliving  him.  Madam! 

This  staggered  her  a  little. 

M.  Sure! — nobody  can  be  sure — but  it  is  very  likely 
that 

D.  Not  at  all,  Madam.  You  was  going  to  read  some- 
thing (but  stopped)   about  his  constitution:  his  sobriety  is 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  157 

well  known — Why,  Madam,  these  gentlemen  who  have  used 
the  sea,  and  been  in  different  climates,  and  come  home  to 
relax  from  cares  in  a  temperate  one,  and  are  sober — are  the 
likeliest  to  live  long  of  any  men  in  the  world.  Don't  you 
see  that  this  very  skin  is  a  fortification  of  buff? 

M.  Strange  creature! 

D.  God  forbid,  that  anybody  I  love  and  honour  should 
marry  a  man  in  hopes  to  iury  him — but  suppose.  Madam, 
at  your  time  of  life 

M.  My  time  of  life  ? — Dear  heart ! — What  is  my  time  of 
life,  pray? 

D.  Not  old.  Madam;  and  that  you  are  not,  may  be  your 
danger ! 

As  I  hope  to  live  (my  dear)  my  mother  smiled,  and  looked 
not  displeased  with  me. 

M.  Why,  indeed,  child — why,  indeed,  I  must  needs  say 
— and  then  I  should  choose  to  do  nothing  (froward  as  you 
are  sometimes)  to  hurt  you. 

D.  Why,  as  to  that.  Madam,  I  can't  expect  that  you 
should  deprive  yourself  of  any  satisfaction 

M.  Satisfaction,  my  dear! — I  don't  say  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction — but  could  I  do  anything  that  would  benefit 
you,  it  would  perhaps  be  an  inducement  to  hold  one  confer- 
ence upon  the  subject. 

D.  My  fortune  already  will  be  more  considerable  than 
my  match,  if  I  am  to  have  Mr.  Hickman. 

M.  Why  so? — Mr.  Hickman  has  fortune  enough  to  entitle 
him  to  yours. 

D.  If  you  think  so,  that's  enough. 

M.  Not  but  I  should  think  the  worse  of  myself,  if  I  de- 
sired anybody's  death;  but  I  think,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Antony 
Harlowe  is  a  healthy  man,  and  bids  fair  for  a  long  life. 

Bless  me.  thought  T,  how  shall  I  do  to  Icnow  whether 
this  be  an  objection  or  a  recommendation ! 

D.  Will  you  forgive  me.  Madam? 

M.  What  would  the  girl  say?  [looking  as  if  she  was  half 
afraid  to  hear  what]. 

D.  Only,  that  if  you  marry  a  man  of  Tiis  time  of  life,  you 


158  THE   HISTORY    OF 

stand  two  chances  instead  of  one^  to  be  a  nurse  at  your  time 
of  life. 

M.  Saucebox ! 

D.  Dear  Madam ! — What  I  mean  is  only  that  these  healthy 
old  men  sometimes  fall  into  lingering  disorders  all  at  once. 
And  I  humbly  conceive  that  the  infirmities  of  age  are  un- 
easily borne  with,  where  the  remembrance  of  the  pleasanter 
season  comes  not  in  to  relieve  the  healthier  of  the  two. 

M.  A  strange  girl! — Yet  his  healthy  constitution  an  ob- 
jection just  now ! — But  I  always  told  you  that  you  know 
either  too  much  to  be  argued  with,  or  two  little  for  me  to 
have  patience  with  you. 

D.  I  can't  but  say  I  should  be  glad  of  your  commands, 
Madam,  how  to  behave  myself  to  Mr.  Anthony  Harlowe  the 
next  time  he  comes. 

M.  How  to  behave  yourself ! — Why,  if  you  retire  with  con- 
tempt of  him,  when  he  next  comes,  it  will  be  but  as  you  have 
been  used  to  do  of  late. 

D.  Then  he  is  to  come  again.  Madam? 

M.  And  suppose  he  be. 

D.  I  can't  help  it,  if  it  be  your  pleasure.  Madam.  He 
desires  a  line  in  answer  to  his  fine  letter.  If  he  come,  it  will 
be  in  pursuance  of  that  line,  I  presume? 

M.  None  of  your  arch  and  pert  leers,  girl! — You  know  I 
won't  bear  them.  I  had  a  mind  to  hear  what  you  would  say 
to  this  matter.    I  have  not  written;  but  I  shall  presently. 

D.  It  is  mighty  good  of  you,  Madam  (I  hope  the  man  will 
think  so),  to  answer  his  first  application  by  letter. — Pity  he 
should  write  twice,  if  once  will  do. 

M.  That  fetch  won't  let  you  into  my  intention  as  to  what 
I  shall  write.    It  is  too  saucily  put. 

D.  Perhaps  I  can  guess  at  your  intention.  Madam,  were 
it  to  become  me  so  to  do. 

M.  Perhaps  I  would  not  make  a  Mr.  HicTcman  of  any  man ; 
using  him  the  worst  for  respecting  me. 

D.  ISTor,  perhaps,  would  I,  Madam,  if  I  liJced  his  respects. 

M.  1  understand  you.  But  perhaps  it  is  in  your  power  to 
make  me  hearken,  or  not,  to  Mr.  Harlowe. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  159 

D.  Young  men,  who  have  probably  a  good  deal  of  time 
before  them,  need  not  be  in  haste  for  a  wife.  Mr.  Hickman, 
poor  man!  must  stay  his  time,  or  take  his  remedy. 

M.  He  bears  more  from  you  than  a  man  ought. 

D.  Then,  I  doubt,  he  gives  a  reason  for  the  treatment  he 
meets  with. 

M.  Provoking  creature! 

D.  I  have  but  one  request  to  make  to  you,  Madam. 

M.  A  dutiful  one,  I  suppose.    What  is  it,  pray? 

D.  That  if  you  marry,  I  may  be  permitted  to  live  single. 

M.  Perverse  creature,  I'm  sure. 

D.  How  can  I  expect.  Madam,  that  you  should  refuse  such 
terms?  Ten  thousand  pounds! — At  the  least  ten  thousand 
pounds  ! — A  very  handsome  proposal ! — So  many  fine  things 
too,  to  give  you  one  by  one! — Dearest  Madam,  forgive  me! — 
I  hope  it  is  not  yet  so  far  gone,  that  rallying  this  man  will 
be  thought  want  of  duty  to  you. 

M.  Your  rallying  of  Mm,  and  your  reverence  to  me,  it  is 
plain,  have  one  source. 

D.  T  hope  not.  Madam.     But  ten  thousand  pounds 

M.  Is  no  unhandsome  proposal. 

D.  Indeed,  I  think  so.  I  hope,  Madam,  you  will  not  be 
behindhand  with  him  in  generosity. 

M.  He  won't  be  ten  thousand  pounds  the  better  for  me,  if 
he  survive  me. 

D.  ISTo,  Madam ;  he  can't  expect  that,  as  you  have  a  daugh- 
ter, and  as  he  is  a  hachelor,  and  has  not  a  child! — Poor  old 
soul! 

M.  Old  soul,  ISTancy! — And  thus  to  call  him  for  being  a 
bachelor,  not  having  a  child! — Does  this  become  you? 

D.  Not  old  soul  for  that,  Madam — but  half  the  sum;  five 
thousand  pounds ;  you  can't  engage  for  less.  Madam. 

M.  That  sum  has  your  approbation  then?  [Looking  as  if 
she'd  be  even  with  me.] 

D.  As  he  leaves  it  to  your  generosity,  Madam,  to  reward 
his  kindness  to  you,  it  can't  be  less. — Do,  dear  Madam,  per- 
mit me.  without  incurring  your  displeasure,  to  call  him  poor 
old  soul  again. 


160  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

M.  Never  was  such  a  whimsical  creature! — [turning  away 
to  hide  her  involuntary  smile,  for  I  believe  I  looked  very 
archly;  at  least  I  intended  to  do  so] — I  hate  that  wicked  sly 
look.    You  give  yourself  very  free  airs — don't  you. 

D.  I  snatched  her  hand,  and  kissed  it — My  dear  Mamma, 
be  not  angry  with  your  girl ! — You  have  told  me  that  you  was 
very  lively  formerly. 

M.  Forinerly!  Good  lack! — But  were  I  to  encourage  his 
proposals,  you  may  be  sure,  that  for  Mr.  Hickman's  sake,  as 
well  as  yours,  I  should  make  a  wise  agreement. 

D.  You  have  both  lived  to  years  of  prudence.  Madam. 

M.  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am  an  old  soul  too. 

D.  He  also  is  for  making  a  wise  agreement,  or  hinting  at 
one,  at  least. 

M.  Well,  the  short  and  the  long,  I  suppose,  is  this :  I  have 
not  your  consent  to  marry. 

D.  Indeed,  Madam,  you  have  not  my  wishes  to  marry. 

M.  Let  me  tell  you  that  if  prudence  consists  in  wishing 
well  to  one's  self,  I  see  not  but  the  young  flirts  are  as  pru- 
dent as  the  old  souls. 

D.  Dear  Madam,  would  you  blame  me,  if  to  wish  you  not 
to  marry  Mr.  Antony  Harlowe  is  to  wish  well  to  myself. 

M.  You  are  mighty  witty.     I  wish  you  were  as  dutiful. 

D.  I  am  more  dutiful,  I  hope,  than  witty;  or  I  should  be 
a  fool  as  well  as  a  saucebox. 

M.  Let  me  judge  of  both — Parents  are  only  to  live  for 
their  children,  let  them  deserve  it  or  not.  That's  their  duti- 
ful notion. 

D.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  wish,  if  there  be  two  in- 
terests between  my  mother  and  me,  that  my  mother  postpone 
her  own  for  mine ! — or  give  up  anything  that  would  add  to 
the  real  comforts  of  her  life  to  oblige  me !— Tell  me,  my  dear 
mamma,  if  you  think  the  closing  with  this  proposal  will? 

M.  I  say  that  ten  thousand  pounds  is  such  an  acquisition 
to  one's  family,  that  the  offer  of  it  deserves  a  civil  return. 

D.  ISTot  the  offer,  Madam:  the  chance  only! — if  indeed 
you  have  a  view  to  an  increase  of  family,  the  money  may  pro- 
vide  


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  161 

M.  You  can't  keep  within  tolerable  bounds ! — That  saucy 
fleer  I  cannot  away  with 

D.  Dearest,  dearest  Madam,  forgive  me;  but  old  soul  ran 
in  my  head  again ! — Nay,  indeed,  and  upon  my  word,  I  will 
not  be  robbed  of  that  charming  smile !  And  again  I  kissed 
her  hand. 

M.  Away,  bold  creature !  Nothing  can  be  so  provoking  as 
to  be  made  to  smile  when  one  would  choose,  and  ought,  to 
be  angry. 

D.  But,  dear  Madam,  if  it  be  to  he,  I  presume  you  won't 
think  of  it  before  next  winter. 

M.  What  now  would  the  pert  one  be  at? 

D.  Because  he  only  proposes  to  entertain  you  with  pretty 
stories  of  foreign  nations  in  a  winter's  evening. — Dearest, 
dearest  Madam,  let  me  have  the  reading  of  his  letter  through. 
I  will  forgive  him  all  he  says  about  me. 

M.  It  may  be  a  very  difficult  thing,  perhaps,  for  a  man  of 
the  best  sense  to  write  a  love-letter  that  may  not  be  cavilled  at. 

D.  That's  because  lovers  in  their  letters  hit  not  the  me- 
dium. They  either  write  too  much  nonsense,  or  too  little. 
But  do  you  call  this  odd  soul's  letter  [no  more  will  I  call  him 
old  soul,  if  I  can  help  it]  a  love-letter? 

M.  Well,  well,  I  see  you  are  averse  to  this  matter.  I  am 
not  to  be  your  mother;  you  will  live  single,  if  I  marry.  I  had 
a  mind  to  see  if  generosity  govern  you  in  your  views.  I 
shall  pursue  my  own  inclinations ;  and  if  they  should  happen 
to  be  suitable  to  yours,  pray  let  me  for  the  future  be  better 
rewarded  by  you  than  hitherto  I  have  been. 

And  away  she  flung,  without  staying  for  a  reply. — Vexed, 
I  daresay,  that  I  did  not  better  approve  of  the  proposal — 
were  it  only  that  the  merit  of  denying  might  have  been  all 
her  own,  and  to  lay  the  stronger  obligation  upon  her  saucy 
daughter. 

She  wrote  such  a  widotv-liJce  refusal  when  she  went  from 
me,  as  might  not  exclude  hope  in  any  other  wooer;  whatever 
it  may  do  in  Mr.  Tony  Harlowe. 

It  will  be  my  part,  to  take  care  to  beat  her  off  the  visit  she 
half  promises  to  make  him  (as  you  will  see  in  her  answer) 


162  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

upon  condition  that  he  withdraw  his  suit.  For  who  knows 
what  effect  the  old  bachelor's  exotics  [far-fetched  and  dear- 
hought  3'OU  know  is  a  proverb]  might  otherwise  have  upon  a 
woman's  mind,  wanting  nothing  but  unnecessaries,  gew- 
gaws, and  fineries,  and  offered  such  as  are  not  easily  to  be 
met  with,  or  purchased? 

Well,  but  now  I  give  you  leave  to  read  here,  in  this  place, 
the  copy  of  my  mother's  answer  to  your  uncle's  letter.  Not 
one  comment  will  I  make  upon  it.  I  know  my  duty  better. 
And  here,  therefore,  taking  the  liberty  to  hope  that  I  may, 
in  your  present  less  disagreeable,  though  not  wholly  agreeable 
situation,  provoke  a  smile  from  you,  I  conclude  myself, 

Your  ever  affectionate  and  faithful 

Anna  Howe. 


Mrs.  Annahella  Howe  to  Antony  Harlowe,  Esq. 

Mr.  Antont  Haelowe,  ^'^^^^'  ^^^  ''• 

Sir, — It  is  not  usual,  I  believe,  for  our  sex  to  answer  by 
pen  and  ink  the  first  letter  on  these  occasions.  The  first  let- 
ter! How  odd  is  that!  As  if  I  expected  another;  which  I 
do  not.  Bat  then  I  think,  as  I  do  not  judge  proper  to  en- 
courage your  proposal,  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not 
answer  in  civility,  where  so  great  a  civility  is  intended.  In- 
deed I  was  always  of  opinion,  that  a  person  was  entitled  to 
that,  and  not  to  ill  usage,  because  he  had  a  respect  for  me. 
And  so  I  have  often  and  often  told  my  daughter. 

A  woman  I  think  makes  but  a  poor  figure  in  a  man's  eye 
afterwards,  and  does  no  reputation  to  her  sex  neither,  when 
she  behaves  like  a  tyrant  to  him  beforehand. 

To  be  sure,  sir,  if  I  were  to  change  my  condition,  I  know 
not  a  gentleman  whose  proposal  could  be  more  agreeable. 
Your  nephew  and  your  nieces  have  enough  without  you :  my 
daughter  has  a  fine  fortune  without  me,  and  I  should  take 
care  to  double  it,  living  or  dying,  were  I  to  do  such  a  thing : 


CLARISSA   HABLOWE.  163 

so  nobody  need  to  be  the  worse  for  it.  But  Nancy  would  not 
think  so. 

All  the  comfort  I  know  of  in  children,  is,  that  when  young 
they  do  with  us  what  they  will,  and  all  is  pretty  in  them  to 
their  very  faults;  and  when  they  are  grown  up,  they  think 
their  parents  must  live  for  them  only;  and  deny  themselves 
everything  for  their  sakes.  I  know  Nancy  could  not  bear  a 
father-in-law.  She  would  fly  at  the  very  thought  of  my  be- 
ing in  earnest  to  give  her  one.  Not  that  I  stand  in  fear  of 
my  daughter  neither.  It  is  not  fit  I  should.  But  she  has  her 
poor  papa's  spirit.  A  very  violent  one  that  was.  And  one 
would  not  choose,  you  know,  sir,  to  enter  into  any  affair, 
that  one  knows  one  must  renounce  a  daughter  for,  or  she  a 
mother — except  indeed  one's  heart  were  much  in  it;  which, 
I  bless  God,  mine  is  not. 

I  have  now  been  a  widow  these  ten  years;  nobody  to  con- 
trol me :  and  I  am  said  not  to  bear  control :  so,  sir,  you  and  I 
are  best  as  we  are,  I  believe :  nay,  I  am  sure  of  it :  for  we 
want  not  what  either  has;  having  both  more  than  we  know 
what  to  do  with.  And  I  know  I  could  not  be  in  the  least  ac- 
countable for  any  of  my  ways. 

My  daughter,  indeed,  though  she  is  a  fine  girl,  as  girls  go 
(she  has  too  much  sense  indeed  for  one  of  her  sex,  and  knows 
she  has  it),  is  more  a  check  to  me  than  one  would  wish  a 
daughter  to  be :  for  who  would  choose  to  be  always  snapping 
at  each  other?  But  she  will  soon  be  married;  and  then,  not 
living  together,  we  shall  only  come  together  when  we  are 
pleased,  and  stay  away  when  we  are  not;  and  so,  like  other 
lovers,  never  see  anything  but  the  best  sides  of  each  other. 

I  own,  for  all  this,  that  I  love  her  dearly;  and  she  me,  I 
daresay:  so  would  not  wish  to  provoke  her  to  do  otherwise. 
Besides,  the  girl  is  so  much  regarded  everywhere,  that  having 
lived  so  much  of  my  prime  a  widow,  I  would  not  lay  myself 
open  to  her  censures,  or  even  to  her  indifference,  you  know. 

Your  generous  proposal  requires  all  this  explicitness.     I 

thank  you  for  your  good  opinion  of  me.    When  I  know  you 

acquiesce  with  this  my  civil  refusal  [and  indeed,  sir,  I  am 

as  much  in  earnest  in  it,  as  if  I  had  spoken  broader],  I  don't 

Vol.  IV— 13. 


164  THE   HISTORY    OF 

know  but  Nancy  and  I  may,  with  your  permission,  come  to 
see  your  fine  things;  for  I  am  a  great  admirer  of  rarities 
that  come  from  abroad. 

So,  sir,  let  us  only  converse  occasionally  as  we  meet,  as  we 
used  to  do,  without  any  other  view  to  each  other  than  good 
wishes :  which  I  hope  may  not  be  lessened  for  this  declining. 
And  then  I  shall  always  think  myself 

Your  obliged  servant, 

Annabella.  Howe. 

P.8.  I  sent  word  by  Mrs.  Lorimer,  that  I  would  write  an 
answer:  but  would  take  time  for  consideration.  So  hope, 
sir,  you  won't  think  it  a  slight  I  did  not  write  sooner. 


LETTER  XXXVII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Sunday,  May  21. 

I  AM  too  much  disturbed  in  my  mind  to  think  of  anything 
but  revenge ;  or  I  did  intend  to  give  thee  an  account  of  Miss 
Harlowe's  ol)servations  on  the  play.  Miss  Harlowe's  I  say. 
Thou  knowest  that  I  hate  the  name  of  Harlowe;  and  I  am 
exceedingly  out  of  humour  with  her,  and  with  her  saucy 
friend. 

Wliat's  the  matter  now?  thou'lt  ask. 

Matter  enough;  for  while  we  were  at  the  play,  Dorcas,  who 
had  her  orders,  and  a  key  to  her  lady's  chamber,  as  well  as  a 
master-key  to  her  drawers  and  mahogany  chest,  closet  key 
and  all,  found  means  to  come  at  some  of  Miss  Howe's  last 
written  letters.  The  vigilant  wench  was  directed  to  them  by 
seeing  her  lady  take  a  letter  out  of  her  stays,  and  put  it  to 
the  others,  before  she  went  out  with  me — afraid,  as  the 
women  upbraidingly  tell  me,  that  I  should  find  it  there. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  165 

Dorcas  no  sooner  found  them,  than  she  assembled  three 
ready  writers  of  the  non-ap parents ;  and  Sally,  and  she,  and 
tlicy  employed  themselves  with  the  utmost  diligence,  in  mak- 
ing extracts,  according  to  former  directions,  from  these 
cursed  letters,  for  my  use.  Cursed,  I  may  well  call  them — 
Such  abuses ! — Such  virulence ! — Oh,  this  little  fury  Miss 
Howe ! — Well  might  her  saucy  friend  (who  has  been  equally 
free  with  me,  or  the  occasion  could  not  have  been  given)  be 
so  violent  as  she  lately  was,  at  my  endeavouring  to  come  at 
one  of  these  letters. 

I  was  sure  that  this  fair  one,  at  so  early  an  age,  with  a 
constitution  so  firm,  health  so  blooming,  eyes  so  sparkling, 
expectations  therefore  so  lively,  and  hope  so  predominating, 
could  not  be  absolutely,  and  from  her  own  vigilance,  so 
guarded,  and  so  apprehensive,  as  I  have  found  her  to  be. 

Sparkling  eyes.  Jack,  when  the  poetical  tribe  have  said  all 
they  can  for  them,  are  an  infallible  sign  of  a  rogue,  or  room 
for  a  rogue,  in  the  heart. 

Thou  mayest  go  on  with  thy  preachments,  and  Lord  M. 
with  his  wisdom  of  nations,  I  am  now  more  assured  of  her 
than  ever.  And  now  my  revenge  is  up,  and  joined  with  my 
love,  all  resistance  must  fall  before  it.  And  most  solemnly 
do  I  swear  that  Miss  Howe  shall  come  in  for  her  snach. 

And  here,  just  now,  is  another  letter  brought  from  the 
same  little  virulent  devil.  I  hope  to  procure  transcripts  from 
that  too,  very  speedily,  if  it  be  put  to  the  test ;  for  the  saucy 
fair  one  is  resolved  to  go  to  church  this  morning;  not  so 
much  from  a  spirit  of  devotion,  I  have  reason  to  think,  as  to 
try  whether  she  can  go  out  without  check,  control,  or  my  at- 
tendance. 

I  HAVE  been  denied  breakfasting  with  her.  Indeed  she  was 
a  little  displeased  with  me  last  night :  because,  on  our  return 
from  the  play,  I  obliged  her  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  night  with 
the  women  and  me,  in  their  parlour,  and  to  stay  till  near  one. 
She  told  me  at  parting,  that  she  expected  to  have  the  whole 
next  day  to  herself.  I  had  not  read  the  extracts  then ;  so  was 
all  affectionate  respect,  awe,  and  distance;  for  I  had  resolved 


166  THE   HISTORY    OF 

to  begin  a  new  course,  and,  if  possible,  to  banish  all  jealousy 
and  suspicion  from  her  heart :  and  yet  I  had  no  reason  to  be 
much  troubled  at  her  past  suspicions;  since,  if  a  woman  will 
continue  with  a  man  whom  she  suspects,  when  she  can  get 
from  him,  or  tliinls  she  can,  I  am  sure  it  is  a  very  hopeful 
sign. 

She  is  gone.  Slipt  down  before  I  was  aware.  She  had 
ordered  a  chair,  on  purpose  to  exclude  my  personal  attend- 
ance. But  I  had  taken  proper  precautions.  Will,  attended 
her  by  consent;  Peter,  the  house-servant,  was  within  Will.'s 
call. 

I  had,  by  Dorcas,  represented  her  danger  from  Singleton, 
in  order  to  dissuade  her  from  going  at  all,  unless  she  allowed 
me  to  attend  her;  but  I  was  answered,  with  her  usual  saucy 
smartness,  that  if  there  were  no  cause  of  fear  of  being  met 
with  at  the  playhouse,  when  there  were  but  two  playhouses, 
surely  there  was  less  at  church,  when  there  were  so  many 
churches.  The  chairmen  were  ordered  to  carry  her  to  St. 
James's  church. 

But  she  would  not  be  so  careless  of  obliging  me,  if  she 
knew  what  I  have  already  come  at,  and  how  the  women  urge 
me  on;  for  they  are  continually  complaining  of  tJie  restraint 
they  lie  under  in  their  behaviour;  in  their  attendance;  neg- 
lecting all  their  concerns  in  the  front  house;  and  Jceeping 
this  elegant  hacTc  one  entirely  free  from  company,  that  she 
may  have  no  suspicion  of  them.  They  doubt  not  my  gen- 
erosity, they  say:  but  why  for  my  own  sake,  in  Lord  M.'s 
style,  should  I  make  so  long  a  harvest  of  so  little  corn  f 

Women,  ye  reason  well.  I  think  I  will  begin  my  opera- 
tions the  moment  she  comes  in, 

I  HAVE  come  at  the  letter  brought  her  from  Miss  Howe  to- 
day. Plot,  conjuration,  sorcery,  witchcraft,  all  going  for- 
ward. I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  this  Miss  Harloive  with  pa- 
tience. As  the  n^Tiiphs  below  ask,  so  do  I,  Why  is  night  neces- 
sary? And  Sally  and  Polly  upbraidingly  remind  me  of  my 
first  attempts  upon  themselves.     Yet  force  answers  not  my 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  167 

end — and  yet  it  may,  if  there  be  truth  in  that  part  of  the 
libertine's  creed,  That  once  subdued,  is  always  subdued! 
And  what  woman  answers  affirmatively  to  the  question? 

She  is  returned :  but  refuses  to  admit  me :  and  insists  upon 
having  the  day  to  herself.  Dorcas  tells  me  that  she  believes 
her  denial  is  from  motives  of  piety. — Oons,  Jack,  is  there  im- 
piety in  seeing  me ! — Would  it  not  be  the  highest  act  of  piety 
to  reclaim  me  ?  And  is  this  to  be  done  by  her  refusing  to  see 
me  when  she  is  in  a  devouter  frame  than  usual? — But  I  hate 
her,  hate  her  heartily !  She  is  old,  ugly,  and  deformed. — But 
oh,  the  blasphemy !  yet  she  is  an  Harlowe :  and  I  do  and  can 
hate  her  for  that. 

But  since  I  must  not  see  her  [she  will  be  mistress  of  her 
own  will,  and  of  her  time,  truly!]  let  me  fill  up  my  time,  by 
tellins:  thee  what  I  have  come  at. 


"O 


The  first  letter  the  women  met  with,  is  dated  April  27.* 
Where  can  she  have  put  the  'preceding  ones ! — It  mentions 
Mr.  Hickman  as  a  busy  fellow  between  them.  Hickman  had 
best  take  care  of  himself.  She  says  in  it,  '  I  hope  you  have 
*  no  cause  to  repent  returning  my  ISTorris — it  is  forthcoming 
'  on  demand.'  Xow,  what  the  devil  can  this  mean ! — Her 
Norris  forthcoming  on  demand ! — the  devil  take  me,  if  I  am 
out-Norrised! — If  such  innocents  can  allow  themselves  to 
plot  (to  Norris),  well  may  I. 

She  is  sorry  that  "  her  Hannah  can't  be  with  her.' — And 
what  if  she  could? — What  could  Hannah  do  for  her  in  such 
a  house  as  this? 

'  The  women  in  the  house  are  to  be  found  out  in  one  break- 
'  fasting.'  The  women  are  enraged  at  both  the  correspon- 
dents for  this;  and  more  than  ever  make  a  point  of  my 
subduing  her.  I  had  a  good  mind  to  give  Miss  Howe  to 
them  in  full  property.  Say  but  the  word.  Jack,  and  it  shall 
be  done. 

'  She  is  glad  that  Miss  Harlowe  had  thoughts  of  taking 
'  me  at  my  word.  She  wondered  I  did  not  offer  again.'  Ad- 
*  See  V^ol.  III.,  Letter  LXII. 


168  THE   HISTORY    OF 

vises  her,  if  I  don't  soon,  'not  to  stay  with  me.'  Cautions 
her  '  to  keep  me  at  a  distance ;  not  to  permit  the  least  f  amil- 
'  iarity/ — See,  Jack !  see  Belf  ord ! — Exactly  as  I  thought ! — 
Her  vigilance  all  owing  to  a  cool  friend;  who  can  sit  down 
quietly,  and  give  that  advice  which  in  her  own  ease  she  could 
not  take.  What  an  encouragement  to  me  to  proceed  in  my 
devices,  when  I  have  reason  to  think  that  my  beloved's  re- 
serves are  owing  more  to  Miss  Howe's  cautions  than  to  her 
own  inclinations !  But  '  it  is  my  interest  to  be  honest,'  Miss 
Howe  tells  her. — Interest^  fools  ! — I  thought  these  girls 
knew  that  my  interest  was  ever  subservient  to  my  pleasure. 

What  would  I  give  to  come  at  the  copies  of  the  letters  to 
which  those  of  Miss  Howe  are  answers ! 

The  next  letter  is  dated  May  3.*  In  this  the  little  terma- 
gant expressed  her  astonishment,  that  her  mother  should  write 
to  Miss  Harlowe,  to  forbid  her  to  correspond  with  her  daugh- 
ter. Mr.  Hickman,  she  says,  is  of  the  opinion  '  that  she  ought 
not  to  obey  her  mother.'  How  the  creeping  fellow  trims  be- 
tween both !  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  punish  him,  as  well  as 
1^  this  virago;  and  I  have  a  scheme  rumbling  in  my  head,  that 
wants  but  half  an  hour's  musing  to  bring  into  form,  that  will 
do  my  business  upon  both.  I  cannot  bear  that  the  parental 
authority  should  be  thus  despised,  thus  trampled  under  foot. 
But  observe  the  vixen,  ' 'Tis  well  he  is  of  her  opinion;  for  ber 
'  mother  having  set  her  up,  she  must  have  somebody  to  quar- 
*  rel  with.' — Could  a  Lovelace  have  allowed  himself  a  greater 
license?  This  girl's  a  devilish  rake  in  her  heart.  Had  she 
been  a  man,  and  one  of  us,  she'd  have  outdone  us  all  in  en- 
terprise and  spirit. 

'  She  wants  but  a  very  little  farther  provocation,'  she  says, 
'to  fly  privately  to  London.  And  if  she  does,  she  will  not 
'  leave  her  till  she  sees  her  either  honourably  married,  or  quit 
'  of  the  wretch.'  Here,  Jack,  the  transcriber  Sally  has  added 
a  prayer — '  For  the  Lord's  sake,  dear  Mr.  Lovelace,  get  this 
'  fury  to  London ! ' — Her  fate,  I  can  tell  thee.  Jack,  if  we 
had  her  among  us.  should  not  be  so  long  deciding  as  her 
*'  friend's.  What  a  gantelope  would  she  run.  when  I  had  done 
*  See  Letter  III.  of  this  volume. 


CLARISSA   HABLOWE.  169 

with  her,  among  a  dozen  of  her  own  pitiless  sex,  whom  my 
charmer  shall  never  see! — But  more  of  this  anon. 

I  find  by  this  letter,  that  my  saucy  captive  had  been  draw- 
ing the  characters  of  every  varlet  of  ye.  Nor  am  I  spared  in 
it  more  than  you.  '  The  man's  a  fool,  to  be  sure,  my  dear.' 
Let  me  perish,  if  either  of  them  find  me  one — '  A  silly 
fellow,  at  least.'  Cursed  contemptible ! — '  I  see  not  but  they 
'  are  a  set  of  inf ernals  ! '  There's  for  thee,  Belf ord ! — '  And 
he  the  Beelzebub ! '  There's  for  thee,  Lovelace !  and  yet  she 
would  have  her  friend  marry  a  Beelzebub. — And  what  have 
any  of  us  done  (within  the  knowledge  of  Miss  Harlowe),  that 
she  should  give  such  an  account  of  us,  as  should  excuse  so 
much  abuse  from  Miss  Howe ! — But  the  occasion  that  shall 
warrant  this  abuse  is  to  come ! 

She  blames  her,  for  '  not  admitting  Miss  Partington  to 
'  her  bed — watchful,  as  you  are,  what  could  have  happened  ? 
'  — If  violence  were  intended,  he  would  not  stay  for  the  night.' 
I  am  ashamed  to  have  this  hinted  to  me  by  this  virago.  Sally 
writes  upon  this  hint — '  See,  sir,  what  is  expected  from  you. 
'  A  hundred,  and  a  hundred  times  have  we  told  you  of  this.' — 
And  so  they  have.  But  to  be  sure,  the  advice  from  them  was 
not  of  half  the  efficacy  as  it  will  be  from  Miss  Howe. — '  You 
might  have  sat  up  after  her,  or  not  gone  to  bed,'  proceeds  she. 

But  can  there  be  such  apprehensions  between  them,  yet  the 
one  advise  her  to  stay,  and  the  other  resolve  to  wait  my  im- 
perial motion  for  marriage?     I  am  glad  I  know  that. 

She  approves  of  my  proposal  of  Mrs.  Fretchville's  house. 
She  puts  her  upon  expecting  settlements;  upon  naming  a 
day :  and  concludes  with  insisting  upon  her  writing,  notwith- 
standing her  mother's  prohibitions;  or  bids  her  'take  the 
'  consequence.'  TJndutiful  wretches !  How  I  long  to  vindi- 
cate against  them  both  the  insulted  parental  character ! 

Thou  wilt  say  to  thyself,  by  this  time,  and  can  this  proud 
and  insolent  girl  be  the  same  Miss  Howe  who  sighed  for 
honest  Sir  George  Colmar;  and  who,  but  for  this  her  beloved 
friend,  would  have  followed  him  in  all  his  broken  fortunes, 
when  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  kingdom  ? 

Yes,  she  is  the  very  same.    And  I  always  found  in  others, 


170  THE   HISTORY    OF 

as  well  as  in  myself,  that  a  first  passion  thoroughly  subdued, 
made  the  conqueror  of  it  a  rover;  the  conqueress  a  tyrant. 

Well,  but  now  comes  mincing  in  a  letter,  from  one  who 
has  '  the  honour  of  dear  Miss  Howe's  commands  '*  to  ac- 
quaint Miss  Harlowe,  that  Miss  Howe,  is  '  excessively  con- 
cerned for  the  concern  she  has  given  her.' 

'  I  have  great  temptations,  on  this  occasion,'  says  the  prim 
Gothamite,  '  to  express  my  own  resentments  upon  your  pres- 
'  ent  state.' 

'  My  own  resentments ! ' And  why  did  he  not  fall  into 

this  temptation^ — Why,  truly,  because  he  knew  not  what 
that  state  was  which  gave  him  so  tempting  a  subject — only 
hy  a  conjecture,  and  so  forth. 

He  then  dances  in  his  style,  as  he  does  in  his  gait !  To  be 
sure,  to  be  sure,  he  must  have  made  the  grand  tour,  and  come 
home  by  the  way  of  Tipperary. 

'  And  being  moreover  forbid,'  says  the  prancer,  '  to  enter 
'  into  the  cruel  subject.' — This  prohibition  was  a  mercy  to 
thee,  friend  Hickman ! — But  why  cruel  subject,  if  thou  know- 
est  not  what  it  is,  but  conjecturest  only  from  the  disturb- 
ance it  gives  to  a  girl,  that  is  her  mother's  disturbance,  will 
be  thy  disturbance,  and  the  disturbance,  in  turn  of  every- 
body with  whom  she  is  intimately  acquainted,  unless  I  have 
the  humbling  of  her? 

In  another  letter, f  the  little  fury  professes  '  that  she  ivill 
'  write,  and  that  no  man  shall  write  for  her,'  as  if  some  me- 
dium of  that  kind  had  been  proposed.  She  approves  of  her 
fair  friend's  intention  to  '  leave  me,  if  she  can  be  received  by 
'  her  relations.  I  am  a  wretch,  a  foolish  wretch.  She  hates 
'  me  for  my  teasing  wa3^s.  She  has  just  made  an  acquaint- 
'  ance  with  one  who  knows  a  vast  deal  of  my  private  history.' 
A  curse  upon  her,  and  upon  her  historiographer ! — '  The  man 
is  really  a  villain,  an  execrable  one.'  Devil  take  her ! — '  Had 
'  I  a  dozen  lives,  I  might  have  forfeited  them  all  twenty 
'  crimes  ago.'    An  odd  way  of  reckoning.  Jack  ! 

Miss  Betterton,  Miss  Lockyer,  are  named — the  man  (she 
irreverently  repeats)  she  again  calls  a  villain.    Let  me  perish, 

*  See  Letter  III.  of  this  volume,     f  See  Letter  XVI.  of  this  volume. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  171 

I  repeat,  if  I  am  called  a  villain  for  notliing ! — She  '  will 
have  her  uncle/  as  Miss  Harlowe  requests,  '  sounded  about 
'  receiving  her.    Dorcas  is  to  be  attached  to  her  interest :  my 

*  letters  are  to  be  come  at  by  surprise  or  trick ' — 

What  thinkest  thou  of  this.  Jack? 

Miss  Howe  is  alarmed  at  my  attempt  to  come  at  a  letter 
of  hers. 

'  Were  I  to  come  at  the  knowledge  of  her  freedoms  with 

*  my  character,'  she  says,  '  she  should  be  afraid  to  stir  out 
'  without  a  guard.'  I  would  advise  the  vixen  to  get  her  guard 
ready. 

'  I  am  at  the  head  of  a  gang  of  wretches '  [thee,  Jack,  and 
thy  brother  varlets,  she  owns  she  means],  '  who  join  together 
'  to  betray  innocent  creatures,  and  to  support  one  another  in 
'  their  villanies.' — What  sayest  thou  to  this,  Belf ord  ? 

'  She  wonders  not  at  her  melancholy  reflections  for  meet- 
'  ing  me,  for  being  forced  upon  me,  and  tricked  by  me.' — I 
hope.  Jack,  thou'lt  have  done  preaching  after  this ! 

But  she  comforts  her,  '  that  she  will  be  both  a  warning  and 

*  example  to  all  her  sex,'  I  hope  the  sex  will  thank  me  for 
this! 

The  nymphs  had  not  time,  they  say,  to  transcribe  all  that 
was  worthy  of  my  resentment  in  this  letter:  so  I  must  find 
an  opportunity  to  come  at  it  myself.  Noble  rant,  they  say 
it  contains — But  I  am  a  seducer,  and  a  hundred  vile  fellows, 
in  it. — '  And  the  devil,  it  seems,  took  possession  of  my  heart, 

*  and  of  the  hearts  of  all  her  friends,  in  the  same  dark  hour, 

*  in  order  to  provoke  her  to  meet  me.'     Again,  '  There  is  a 

*  fate  in  her  error,'  she  says — why  then  should  she  grieve  ? — 

*  Adversity  is  her  shining  time,'  and  I  can't  tell  what ;  yet 
never  to  thank  the  man  to  whom  she  owes  the  shine! 

In  the  next  letter,*  wicked  as  I  am,  '  she  fears  I  must  be 

*  her  lord  and  master.' 

I  hope  so. 

She  retracts  what  she  has  said  against  me  in  her  last. — 
My  behaviour  to  my  Eosebud;  Miss  Harlowe  to  take  posses- 
sion of  Mrs.  Fretchville's  house ;  I  to  stay  at  Mrs.  Sinclair's ; 

*  See  Letter  XXII.  of  this  volume. 


172  THE   HISTORY    OF 

the  stake  I  have  in  my  country ;  my  reversions ;  my  economy ; 
my  person ;  my  address  [something  like  in  all  this !]  ;  are 
brought  in  my  favour,  to  induce  her  now  not  to  leave  me. 
How  do  I  love  to  puzzle  these  long-sighted  girls ! 

Yet  '  my  teasing  ways/  it  seems,  '  are  intolerable.' — Are 
women  only  to  tease,  I  trow?  The  sex  may  thank  them- 
selves for  teaching  me  to  out-tease  them.  So  the  headstrong 
Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  taught  the  Czar  Peter  to  beat  him, 
by  continuing  a  war  with  the  Muscovites  against  the  ancient 
maxims  of  his  kingdom. 

'  May  eternal  vengeance  pursue  the  villain  [thank  Heaven, 

*  she  does  not  say  overtake],  if  he  give  room  to  doubt  his 

*  honour ! ' — Women  can't  swear.  Jack,  sweet  souls !  they  can 
only  curse. 

I  am  said  to  douM  her  love — Have  I  not  reason?  And 
she,  to  doubt  my  ardour — Ardour,  Jack ! — why,  'tis  very 
right — women,  as  Miss  Howe  says,  and  as  every  rake  knows, 
love  ardours ! 

She  apprises  her  of  the  ^ill  success  of  the  application 
'  made  to  her  uncle.' — By  Hickman  no  doubt ! — I  must  have 
this  fellow's  ears  in  my  pocket,  very  quickl)^,  I  believe. 
She  says,  '  she  is  equally  shocked  and  enraged  against  all 
her  family :  Mrs.  Norton's  weight  has  been  tried  upon  Mrs. 
Harlowe,  as  well  as  Mr.  Hickman's  upon  the  uncle:  ])ut 
never  were  there,'  says  the  vixen,  '  such  determined  brutes 
in  the  world.  Her  uncle  concludes  her  ruined  already.'  Is 
not  that  a  call  upon  me,  as  well  as  a  reproach  ? — '  They  all 
expected  applications  from  her  when  in  distress — but  were 
resolved  not  to  stir  an  inch  to  save  her  life.'  She  was  '  ac- 
cused of  premeditation  and  contrivance.'  Miss  Howe  ^  is 
concerned,'  she  tells  her,  '  for  the  revenge  my  pride  may  put 
me  upon  taking  for  the  distance  she  has  kept  me  at ' — and 
well  she  may. — It  is  now  evident  to  her,  that  she  must  be 
mine  (for  her  cousin  Morden,  it  seems,  is  set  against  her  too) 
— an  act  of  necessity,  of  convenience! — thy  friend,  Jack,  to 
be  already  made  a  woman's  convenience !  Is  this  to  be  borne 
by  a  Lovelace? 

I  shall  make  ";reat  use  of  this  letter.     From  ]\Iiss  Howe's 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  173 

hints  of  what  passed  between  her  uncle  Harlowe  and  Hick- 
man [it  taust  be  Hickman],  I  can  give  room  for  my  inven- 
tion to  play;  for  she  tells  her,  that  '  she  will  not  reveal  all.' 
1  must  endeavour  to  come  at  this  letter  myself.  I  must  have 
the  very  words:  extracts  will  not  do.  This  letter,  when  I 
have  it,  must  be  my  compass  to  steer  by. 

The  fire  of  friendship  then  blazes  and  crackles.  I  never 
before  imagined  that  so  fervent  a  friendship  could  subsist 
between  two  sister-beauties,  both  toasts.  But  even  here  it 
may  be  inflamed  by  opposition,  and  by  that  contradiction 
which  gives  vigour  to  female  spirits  of  a  warm  and  romantic 
turn. 

She  raves  about  '  coming  up,  if  by  so  doing  she  could 
'  prevent  so  noble  a  creature  from  stooping  too  low,  or  save 
'  her  from  ruin.' — One  reed  to  support  another !  I  think  I 
will  contrive  to  bring  her  up. 

How  comes  it  to  pass  that  I  cannot  help  being  pleased 
with  this  virago's  spirit,  though  I  suffer  by  it?  Had  I  her 
but  here,  I'd  engage,  in  a  week's  time,  to  teach  her  submis- 
sion withovit  reserve.  What  pleasure  should  I  have  in  break- 
ing such  a  spirit.  I  should  wish  for  her  but  for  one  month, 
in  all,  I  think.  She  would  be  too  tame  and  spiritless  for 
me  after  that.  How  sweetly  pretty  to  see  the  two  lovely 
friends,  when  humbled  and  tame,  both  sitting  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  a  roo::n,  arm-in-arm,  weeping  and  sobbing  for  each 
other !  and  I  their  emperor,  their  then  acTcnoivledged  emperor, 
reclining  at  my  ease  in  the  same  room,  uncertain  to  which 
I  should  first,  grand  signer  like,  throw  out  my  handkerchief ! 

Again  mind  the  girl :  '  She  is  enraged  at  the  Harlowes ; ' 
she  is  '  angry  at  her  own  mother ; '  she  is  '  exasperated  against 
'  her  foolish  and  low-vanity'd  Lovelace.'  Foolish^  a  little 
toad!  [God  forgive  me  for  calling  a  virtuous  girl  a  toad  !]  — 
*  let  us  stoop  to  lift  the  wretch  out  of  his  dirt,  though  we  soil 
'  our  fingers  in  doing  it !  He  has  not  been  guilty  of  direct 
indecency  to  you.'  It  seems  extraordinary  to  Miss  Howe 
that  I  have  not.  '  Nor  dare  he ! '  She  should  be  sure  of 
that.  If  women  have  such  things  in  their  heads,  why  should 
not  I  in  my  heart?    ITot  so  much  of  a  devil  as  that  comes 


174  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

to  neither.     Such  villainous  intentions  would  have  shown 
themselves  before  now  if  I  had  them. — Lord  help  them! 

She  then  puts  her  friend  upon  urging  for  settlements, 
license,  and  so  forth. — '  No  room  for  delicacy  now/  she 
says,  and  tells  her  what  she  shall  say,  '  to  bring  all  forward 
'  from  me.'  Is  it  not  as  clear  to  thee.  Jack,  as  it  is  to  me, 
that  I  should  have  carried  my  point  long  ago,  but  for  this 
vixen? — She  reproaches  her  for  having  modesty'd  away,  as 
she  calls  it,  more  than  one  opportunity,  that  she  ought  not  to 
have  slipt. — Thus  thou  seest  that  the  noblest  of  the  sex 
mean  nothing  in  the  world  by  their  shyness  and  distance; 
but  to  pound  the  poor  fellow  they  dislike  not,  when  he  comes 
into  their  purlieus. 

Though  '  tricked  into  this  man's  power,'  she  tells  her,  she 
is  '  not  meanly  subjugated  to  it.'  There  are  hopes  of  my 
reformation,  it  seems,  '  from  my  reverence  for  her ;  since  be- 
'  fore  her  I  never  had  any  reverence  for  what  was  good ! '  I 
am  '  a  great,  a  specious  deceiver.'  I  thank  her  for  this,  how- 
ever. A  good  moral  use,  she  says,  may  be  made  of  my  '  hav- 
'  ing  prevailed  upon  her  to  swerve.'  I  am  glad  that  any  good 
may  flow  from  my  actions. 

Annexed  to  this  letter  is  a  paper  the  most  saucy  that  ever 
was  written  of  a  mother  by  a  daughter.  There  are  in  it  such 
free  reflections  upon  widows  and  bachelors,  that  I  cannot 
but  wonder  how  Miss  Howe  came  by  her  learning.  Sir 
George  Colmar,  I  can  tell  thee,  was  a  greater  fool  than  thy 
friend,  if  she  had  it  all  for  nothing. 

The  contents  of  this  paper  acquaint  Miss  Harlowe,  that 
her  uncle  Antony  has  been  making  proposals  of  marriage 
to  her  mother. 

The  old  fellow's  heart  ought  to  be  a  tough  one,  if  he  suc- 
ceed; or  she  who  l^roke  that  of  a  much  worthier  man,  the 
late  Mr.  Howe,  will  soon  got  rid  of  him. 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  the  stupid  family  is  made  more  ir- 
reconcilable than  ever  to  their  goddess-daughter  for  old  An- 
tony's thoughts  of  marrying:  so  I  am  more  secure  of  her 
than  ever.  And  yet  I  believe  at  last,  that  my  tender  heart 
will  be  moved  in  her  favour.     For  I  did  not  wish  that  she 


CLARISSA    UAKLOWE.  175 

ehould  have  nothing  but  persecution  and  distress. — But  why 
loves  she  the  brutes,  as  Miss  Howe  justly  calls  them,  so  much; 
me  so  little? 

I  have  still  more  unpardonable  transcripts  from  other  let- 
ters. 


LETTEK  XXXVIII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

The  next  letter  is  of  such  a  nature,  that  I  daresay  these 
proud  rogues  would  not  have  had  it  fall  into  my  hands  for 
the  world.* 

I  see  by  it  to  what  her  displeasure  with  me,  in  relation  to 
my  proposals,  was  owing.  They  were  not  summed  up,  it 
seems,  with  the  warmth,  with  the  ardour,  which  she  had  ex- 
pected. 

This  whole  letter  was  transcribed  by  Dorcas,  to  whose  lot 
it  fell.  Thou  shalt  have  copies  of  them  all  at  full  length 
shortly. 

'  Men  of  our  cast,'  this  little  devil  says,  '  she  fancies,  can- 
*  not  have  the  ardours  that  honest  men  have.'  Miss  Howe 
has  very  pretty  fancies,  Jack.  Charming  girl!  Would  to 
heaven  I  knew  whether  my  fair  one  answers  her  as  freely 
as  she  writes !  'Twould  vex  a  man's  heart,  that  this  virago 
should  have  come  honestly  by  her  fancies. 

Who  Jcnoivs  hut  I  may  have  half  a  dozen  creatures  to  get 
off  my  hands,  before  I  engage  for  life? — Yet,  lest  this  should 
mean  me  a  compliment,  as  if  I  would  reform,  she  adds  her 
belief  that  she  '  must  not  expect  me  to  be  honest  on  this  side 
my  grand  climacteric'  She  has  a  high  opinion  of  her  sex, 
to  think  they  can  charm  so  long,  a  man  so  well  acquainted 
with  their  identicalness. 

'  He  to  suggest  delays,'  she  says,  '  from  a  compliment  to 
'  be  made  to  Lord  M. ! ' — Yes,  I,  my  dear. — Because  a  man 
*  See  Letter  XXVII.  of  this  volume. 


176  THE   HISTORY    OF 

has  not  been  accustomed  to  be  dutiful,  must  he  never  be 
dutiful  ? — In  so  important  a  case  as  this  too !  the  hearts  of 
his  whole  family  are  engaged  in  it ! — '  You  did,  indeed/  says 
she,  '  want  an  interposing  friend — but  were  I  to  have  been 
'  in  your  situation,  I  would  have  torn  his  eyes  out,  and  left 
'  it  to  his  heart  to  furnish  the  reason  for  it.'  See !  See ! 
What  sayest  thou  to  this,  Jack? 

'  Villain — fellow  that  he  is  ! '  Fellow.  And  for  what  ? 
Only  for  wishing  that  the  next  day  were  to  be  my  happy 
one;  and  for  being  dutiful  to  my  nearest  relation. 

'  It  is  the  cruellest  of  fates,'  she  says,  '  for  a  woman  to 
'  be  forced  to  have  a  man  whom  her  heart  despises.' — That 
is  what  I  wanted  to  be  sure  of. — I  was  afraid  that  my 
beloved  was  too  conscious  of  her  talents ;  of  her  superiority ! 
I  was  afraid  that  she  indeed  despised  me. — And  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  she  does.  But,  Belford,  I  do  not  intend  that 
this  lady  shall  be  bound  down  to  so  cruel  a  fate.  Let  me 
perish  if  I  marry  a  woman  who  has  given  her  most  intimate 
friend  reason  to  say,  she  despises  me! — A  Lovelace  to  be 
despised,  Jack ! 

'  His  clenched  fist  to  his  forehead  on  your  leaving  him  in 
'  just  displeasure ' — that  is,  when  she  was  not  satisfied  with 
my  ardours,  if  it  please  ye ! — I  remember  the  motion :  but 
her  back  was  towards  me  at  the  time.*  Are  these  watchful 
ladies  all  eye  ? — But  observe  what  follows ;  '  I  wish  it  had 
been  a  pole-axe,  and  in  the  hands  of  his  worst  enemy.' — 

I  will  have  patience,  Jack ;  I  will  have  patience !  My 
day  is  at  hand. — Then  will  I  steel  my  heart  with  these 
remembrances. 

But  here  is  a  scheme  to  be  thought  of,  in  order  to  'get 
*  my  fair  prize  out  of  my  hands,  in  case  I  give  her  reason 
'  to  suspect  me.' 

This  indeed  alarms  me.  Now  the  contention  becomes  ardu- 
ous. Now  wilt  thou  not  wonder,  if  I  let  loose  my  plotting 
genius  upon  them  both.    I  will  not  be  out-Norrised,  Belford. 

But  once  more,  '  She  has  no  notion,'  she  says,  '  that  I  can 

*  She  tells  Miss  Howe  that  she  saw  this  motion  in  the  pier  glass. 
See  Letter  XXVI.  of  this  volume. 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  177 

'  or  dare  to  mean  her  dishonour.     But  then  the  man  is  a 

*  fool — that's  all.' — I  should  indeed  be  a  fool,  to  proceed  as 
I  do,  and  mean  matrimony  ! — '  However,  since  you  are  thrown 
upon  a  fool/  says  she,  '  marry  the  fool  at  the  first  oppor- 
'  tunity ;   and  though   I   doubt  that  this  man  will  be  the 

*  most  unmanageable  of  fools,  as  all  witty  and  vain  fools  are, 
'  take  him  as  a  punishment,  since  you  cannot  as  a  reward.' 
— Is  there  any  bearing  this,  Belford? 

But  '  such  men  as  myself,  are  the  men  that  women  do 

*  not  naturally  hate.' — True  as  the  gospel.  Jack ! — The  truth 
is  out  at  last.  Have  I  not  always  told  thee  so?  Sweet 
creatures  and  true  Christians  these  young  girls !  They  love 
their  enemies.  But  rakes  in  their  hearts  all  of  them !  Like 
turns  to  like;  thafs  the  thing.  Were  I  not  well  assured  of 
the  truth  of  this  observation  of  the  vixen,  I  should  have 
thought  it  worth  while,  if  not  to  be  a  good  man,  to  be  more 
of  a  hypocrite,  than  I  found  it  needful  to  be. 

But  in  the  letter  I  came  at  to-day,  while  she  was  at 
church,  her  scheme  is  further  opened ;  and  a  cursed  one  it  is. 

[Mr.  Lovelace  then  transcribes,  from  his  shorthand  notes, 
that  part  of  Miss  Howe's  letter  which  relates  to  the  de- 
sign of  engaging  Mrs.  Townsend  (in  case  of  necessity) 
to  give  her  protection  till  Colonel  Morden  come:*  and 
repeats  his  vows  of  revenge;  especially  for  these  words; 
'  That  should  he  attempt  anything  that  would  make  him 
'  obnoxious  to  the  laws  of  society,  she  might  have  a  fair 
'  riddance  of  him,  either  by  flight  or  the  gallows,  no  matter 
*  which.'    He  then  adds — ] 

'Tis  my  pride  to  subdue  girls  who  know  too  much  to  douht 
their  knowledge;  and  to  convince  them  that  they  know  too 
little,  to  defend  themselves  from  the  inconveniences  of  know- 
ing too  much. 

How  passion  drives  a  man  on  (proceeds  he). — I  have 
written  a  prodigious  quantity  in  a  very  few  hours!  Now 
my  resentments  are  warm,  I  will  see,  and  perhaps  will  punish, 
*  See  Letter  XXXV.  of  this  volume. 


178  THE   HISTORY    OF 

this  proud,  this  double-Q.rraedi  beauty.  I  have  sent  to  tell  her 
that  I  must  be  admitted  to  sup  with  her.  We  have  neither  of 
us  dined.  She  refused  to  drink  tea  in  the  afternoon:  and  I 
believe  neither  of  us  vsrill  have  much  stomach  to  our  supper. 


LETTEE  XXXIX. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Sunday  Morning,  seven  o'clock. 

I  WAS  at  the  play  last  night  with  Mr.  Lovelace  and  Miss 
Horton.  It  is,  you  know,  a  deep  and  most  affecting  tragedy 
in  the  reading.  You  have  my  remarks  upon  it,  in  the  little 
book  you  made  me  write  upon  the  principal  acting-plays. 
You  will  not  wonder  that  Miss  Horton,  as  well  as  I,  was 
greatly  moved  at  the  representation,  when  I  tell  you,  and 
have  some  pleasure  in  telling  you,  that  Mr.  Lovelace  himself 
was  very  sensibly  touched  with  some  of  the  most  affecting 
scenes.  I  mention  this  in  praise  of  the  author's  performance ; 
for  I  take  Mr.  Lovelace  to  be  one  of  the  most  hard-hearted 
men  in  the  world.     Upon  my  w^ord,  my  dear,  I  do. 

His  behaviour,  however,  on  this  occasion,  and  on  our 
return,  was  unexceptionable;  only  that  he  would  oblige  me 
to  stay  to  supper  with  the  women  below,  when  we  came 
back,  and  to  sit  up  with  him  and  them  till  near  one  o'clock 
this  morning.  I  was  resolved  to  be  even  with  him;  and 
indeed  I  am  not  very  sorry  to  have  the  pretence;  for  I  love 
to  pass  the  Sundays  by  myself. 

To  have  the  better  excuse  to  avoid  his  teasing,  I  am  ready 
dressed  to  go  to  church  this  morning,  I  will  go  only  to  St. 
James's  church,  and  in  a  chair;  that  I  may  be  sure  I  can  go 
out  and  come  in  when  I  please,  without  being  intruded  upon 
by  him,  as  I  was  twice  before. 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  179 

Near  nine  o'clock. 

I  HAVE  your  kind  letter  of  yesterday.  He  knows  I  have. 
And  I  shall  expect  that  he  will  be  inquisitive  next  time  I 
see  him  after  your  opinion  of  his  proposals.  I  doubted  not 
your  approbation  of  them,  and  had  written  an  answer  on 
that  presumption;  which  is  ready  for  him.  He  must  study 
for  occasions  of  procrastination,  and  to  disoblige  me,  if  now 
anything  happens  to  set  us  at  variance  again. 

He  is  very  importunate  to  see  me.  He  has  desired  to 
attend  me  to  church.  He  is  angry  that  I  have  declined  to 
breakfast  with  him.  I  am  sure  that  I  should  not  have  been 
at  my  own  liberty  if  I  had.  I  bid  Dorcas  tell  him  that  I 
desired  to  have  this  day  to  myself.  I  would  see  him  in  the 
morning  as  early  as  he  pleased.  She  says,  she  knows  not 
what  ails  him,  but  that  he  is  out  of  humour  with  everybody. 

He  has  sent  again  in  a  peremptory  manner.  He  warns 
me  of  Singleton.  I  sent  word,  that  if  he  was  not  afraid 
of  Singleton  at  the  playhouse  last  night,  I  need  not  at  church 
to-day:  so  many  churches  to  one  playhouse.  I  have  ac- 
cepted of  his  servant's  proposed  attendance.  But  he  is  quite 
displeased,  it  seems.  I  don't  care.  I  will  not  be  perpetually 
at  his  insolent  beck. — Adieu,  my  dear,  till  I  return.  The 
chair  waits.    He  won't  stop  me,  sure,  as  I  go  down  to  it. 

I  DID  not  see  him  as  I  went  down.  He  is,  it  seems,  ex- 
cessively out  of  humour.  Dorcas  says,  not  with  me  neither, 
she  believes;  but  something  has  vexed  him.  This  is  put  on 
perhaps  to  make  me  dine  with  him.  But  I  will  not,  if  I  can 
help  it.  I  shan't  get  rid  of  him  for  the  rest  of  the  dav,  if 
I  do. 

He  was  very  earnest  to  dine  with  me.  But  I  was  resolved 
to  carry  this  one  small  point;  and  so  denied  to  dine  myself. 
And  indeed  I  was  endeavouring  to  write  to  my  cousin  IMor- 
den;  and  had  begun  three  different  times,  without  being 
able  to  please  myself. 

He  was  very  busy  in  writing,  Dorcas  says ;  and  pursued  it 
without  dining,  because  I  denied  him  my  company. 
Vol.  IV— 14. 


180  THE   HISTORY    OF 

He  afterwards  demaiided,  as  I  may  say,  to  be  admitted  to 
afternoon  tea  with  me :  and  appealed  by  Dorcas  to  his  be- 
haviour to  me  last  night;  as  if,  as  I  sent  him  word  by  her, 
he  thought  he  had  a  merit  in  being  unexceptionable.  How- 
ever, I  repeated  my  promise  to  meet  him  as  early  as  he 
pleased  in  the  morning,  or  to  breakfast  with  him. 

Dorcas  says,  he  raved:  I  heard  him  loud,  and  I  heard  his 
servant  fly  from  him,  as  I  thought.  You,  my  dearest  friend, 
say,  in  one  of  yours,*  that  you  must  have  somebody  to  be 
angry  at,  when  your  mother  sets  you  up.  I  should  be  very 
loth  to  draw  comparisons :  but  the  workings  of  passion, 
when  indulged,  are  but  too  much  alike,  whether  in  man  or 
woman. 

He  has  just  sent  me  word  that  he  insists  upon  supping 
with  me.  As  we  had  been  in  a  good  train  for  several  days 
past,  I  thought  it  not  prudent  to  break  with  him  for  little 
matters.  Yet  to  be  in  a  manner  threatened  into  his  will, 
I  know  not  how  to  bear  that. 

While  I  was  considering,  he  came  up,  and  tapping  at 
my  door,  told  me,  in  a  very  angry  tone,  he  must  see  me 
this  night.  He  could  not  rest  till  he  had  been  told  what 
he  had  done  to  deserve  the  treatment  I  gave  him. 

Treatment  I  give  him !  a  wretch !  Yet  perhaps  he  has 
nothing  new  to  say  to  me.    I  shall  be  very  angry  with  him. 

[As  the  lady  could  not  know  what  Mr.  Lovelace's  designs 
were,  nor  the  cause  of  his  ill-humour,  it  will  not  be  im- 
proper to  pursue  the  subject  from  his  letter. 

Having  described  his  angry  manner  of  demanding,  in  person, 
her  company  at  supper,  he  proceeds  as  follows:] 
*  'Tis  hard,  answered  the  fair  perverse,  that  I  am  to  be  so 

*  little  my  own  mistress.     I  will  meet  you  in  the  dining- 

*  room  half  an  hour  hence. 

'  I  went  down  to  wait  that  half  hour.  All  the  women 
'  set  me  hard  to  give  her  cause  for  this  tyranny.     They 

*  See  Letter  III.  of  this  volume,  paragraph  2. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  181 

demonstrated,  as  well  from  the  nature  of  the  sex  as  of  the 
case,  that  I  had  nothing  to  hope  for  from  my  tameness, 
and  could  meet  with  no  worse  treatment,  were  I  to  be 
guilty  of  the  last  offence.  They  urge  me  vehemently  to 
try  at  least  what  effect  some  greater  familiarities  than  I 
had  ever  taken  with  her  would  have:  and  their  arguments 
being  strengthened  by  my  just  resentments  on  the  dis- 
coveries I  had  made,  I  was  resolved  to  take  some  liberties, 
and,  as  they  were  received,  to  take  still  greater,  and  lay  all 
the  fault  upon  her  tyranny.  In  this  humour  I  went  up, 
and  never  had  paralytic  so  little  command  of  his  joints,  as 
I  had,  wliile  I  walked  about  the  dining-room,  attending 
her  motions. 

'  With  an  erect  mien  she  entered,  her  face  averted,  her 
lovely  bosom  swelling,  and  the  more  charmingly  protu- 
berant for  the  erectness  of  her  mien.  0  Jack !  that  sullen- 
ness  and  reserve  should  add  to  the  charms  of  this  haughty 
maid !  but  in  every  attitude,  in  every  humour,  in  every 
gesture,  is  beauty  beautiful.  By  her  averted  face,  and 
indignant  aspect,  I  saw  the  dear  insolent  was  disposed  to 
be  angry — but  by  the  fierceness  of  mine,  as  my  trembling 
hand  seized  hers,  I  soon  made  fear  her  predominant  passion. 
And  yet  the  moment  I  beheld  her,  my  heart  was  das- 
tardised;  and  my  reverence  for  the  virgin  purity,  so  visible 
in  her  whole  deportment,  again  took  place.  Surely,  Belford, 
this  is  an  angel.  And  yet,  had  she  not  been  known  to  be 
a  female,  they  would  not  from  babyhood  have  dressed  her 
as  such,  nor  would  she,  but  upon  that  conviction,  have 
continued  the  dress. 

'  Let  me  ask  you.  Madam,  I  beseech  you  tell  me,  what  I 
have  done  to  deserve  this  distant  treatment? 

^  And  let  me  ask  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  why  are  my  retire- 
ments to  be  thus  invaded? — What  can  you  have  to  say  to 
me  since  last  night,  that  I  went  with  you  so  much  against 
my  will  to  the  play?  and  after  sitting  up  with  you,  equally 
against  my  will,  till  a  very  late  hour? 

'  This  I  have  to  say,  Madam,  that  I  cannot  bear  to  be 
'  kept  at  this  distance  from  you  under  the  same  roof. 


182  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  Under  tlie  same  roof,  sir ! — How  came  you 

'  Hear  me  out.  Madam — [letting  go  her  trembling  hands, 

*  and  snatching  them  back  again  with  an  eagerness  that 
'made  her  start] — I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say,  to  talk 

*  of,  relating  to  our  present  and  future  prospects ;  but  when  I 

*  want  to  open  my  whole  soul  to  you,  you  are  always  con- 
'  triving  to  keep  me  at  a  distance.     You  make  me  incon- 

*  sistent  with  myself.  Your  heart  is  set  upon  delays.  You 
'  must  have  views  that  you  will  not  own.     Tell  me.  Madam, 

*  I  conjure  you  to  tell  me,  this  moment,  without  subterfuge 

*  or  reserve,  in  what  light  am  I  to  appear  to  you  in  future  ? 

*  I  cannot  bear  this  distance.    The  suspense  you  hold  me  in 

*  I  cannot  bear. 

'  In  what  light,  Mr.  Lovelace !  [visibly  terrified.]  In  no 
*bad  light,  I  hope. — Pray,  Mr.  Lovelace,  do  not  grasp  my 

*  hands  so  hard    [endeavouring  to  withdraw  them].     Pray 

*  let  me  go. — 

'  You  hate  me.  Madam 

'  I  hate  nobody,  sir 

'  You  hate  me.  Madam,  repeated  I. 

'  Instigated  and  resolved,  as  I  came  up,  I  wanted  some 
'  new  provocation.  The  devil  indeed,  as  soon  as  my  angel 
'  made  her  appearance,  crept  out  of  my  heart ;  but  he  had 

*  left  the  door  open,  and  was  no  farther  off  than  my  elbow. 

'  You  come  up  in  no  good  temper,  I  see,  Mr.  Lovelace. — 

*  But  pray  be  not  violent. — I  have  done  you  no  hurt. — Pray 

*  be  not  violent 

'  Sweet  creature !  and  I  clasped  one  arm  about  her,  hold- 

*  ing  one  hand  in  my  other. — You  have  done  me  no  hurt. — I 
'  could    have    devoured    her — but    restraining    myself — You 

*  have  done  me  the  greatest  hurt ! — In  what  have  I  deserved 
'  the  distance  you  keep  me  at  ? — I  knew  not  what  to  say. 

*  She  struggled  to  disengage  herself. — Pray,  Mr.  Lovelace, 
'let  me  withdraw.     I  know  not  why  this  is.     I  know  not 

*  what  I  have  done  to  offend  you.  I  see  you  are  come  with 
'  a  design  to  quarrel  with  me.  If  you  would  not  terrify  me 
*by  the  ill  humour  you  are  in,  permit  me  to  withdraw.  I 
*will  hear   all  you  have  to   say   another  time — to-morrow 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  183 

'morning,  as  I  sent  you  word. — But  indeed  you  frighten 
'  me — I  beseech  you,  if  you  have  any  value  for  me,  permit 
'  me  to  withdraw. 

'  Night,  mid-mght,  is  necessary,  Belford.  Surprise,  terror, 
'  must  be  necessary  to  the  ultimate  trial  of  this  charming 
'  creature,  say  the  women  below  what  they  will.     I  could 

*  not  hold  my  purposes.  This  was  not  the  first  time  that  I 
'  had  intended  to  try  if  she  could  forgive. 

'  I  kissed  her  hand  with  a  fervour,  as  if  I  would  have  left 

*  my  lips  upon  it. — Withdraw,  then,  dearest,  and  ever-dear 
'  creature.  Indeed  I  entered  in  a  very  ill  humour.  I  cannot 
'  bear  the  distance  at  which  you  so  causelessly  keep  me.  With- 
'  draw.  Madam,  since  it  is  your  will  to  withdraw ;  and  judge 
'^me  generously;  judge  me  but  as  I  deserve  to  be  judged; 
'  and  let  me  hope  to  meet  you  to-morrow  morning  early 
'  in  such  a  temper  as  becomes  our  present  situation,  and 
'  my  future  hopes. 

'  And  so  saying,  I  conducted  her  to  the  door,  and  left  her 
'  there.  But  instead  of  going  down  to  the  women,  I  went 
'  into  my  own  chamber,  and  locked  myself  in ;  ashamed  of 
'  being  aw^d  by  her  majestic  loveliness,  and  apprehensive 
'  virtue,  into  so  great  a  change  of  purpose,  notwithstanding 
'  I  had  such  just  provocations  from  the  letters  of  her  saucy 

*  friend,  founded  on  her  owti  representations  of  facts  and 
'  situations  between  herself  and  me.' 

[The  lady  (dated  Sunday  night)  thus  describes  her  terrors, 
and  Mr.  Lovelace's  behaviour,  on  the  occasion.] 

On  my  entering  the  dining-room,  he  took  my  hand  in 
his,  in  such  a  humour,  as  I  saw  plainly  he  was  resolved  to 
quarrel  with  me. — And  for  what? — What  had  I  done  to 
him? — I  never  in  my  life  beheld  in  anybody  such  wild,  such 
angry,  such  impatient  airs.  I  was  terrified;  and  instead  of 
being  as  angry  as  I  intended  to  be,  I  was  forced  to  be  all 
mildness.  I  can  hardly  remember  what  were  his  first  words, 
I  was  so  frighted.  But,  you  hate  me,  Madam!  you  hate  me. 
Madam!   were   some   of   them — with    such   a   fierceness — I 


184  THE   HISTORY   OF 

wished  myself  a  thousand  miles  distant  from  him.  I  hate 
nobody,  said  I :  I  thank  God  I  hate  nobody. — You  terrify 
me,  Mr.  Lovelace — let  me  leave  you. — The  man,  my  dear, 
looked  quite  ugly — I  never  saw  a  man  look  so  ugly  as  pas- 
sion made  him  look — and  for  what? — And  he  so  grasped 
my  hands  ! — fierce  creature ; — he  so  grasped  my  hands !  In 
short,  he  seemed  by  his  looks,  and  by  his  words  (once  putting 
his  arms  about  me)  to  wish  me  to  provoke  him.  So  that  I 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  beg  of  him  (which  I  did  repeatedly) 
to  permit  me  to  withdraw;  and  to  promise  to  meet  him  at 
his  own  time  in  the  morning. 

It  was  with  a  very  ill  grace  that  he  complied,  on  that 
condition;  and  at  parting  he  kissed  my  hand  with  such  a 
savageness,  that  a  redness  remains  upon  it  still. 

Do  you  not  think,  my  dear,  that  I  have  reason  to  be 
incensed  at  him,  my  situation  considered?  Am  I  not  under 
a  necessity,  as  it  were,  of  quarrelling  with  him;  at  least 
every  other  time  I  see  him?  No  prudery,  no  coquetry,  no 
tyranny  in  my  heart,  or  in  my  behaviour  to  him,  that  I 
know  of.  No  affected  procrastination.  Aiming  at  nothing 
but  decorum.  He  as  much  concerned,  and  so  he  ought  to 
think,  as  I,  to  have  that  observed.  Too  much  in  his  power: 
cast  upon  him  by  the  cruelty  of  my  relations.  No  other 
protection  to  fly  to  but  his.  One  plain  path  before  us;  yet 
such  embarrasses,  such  difficulties,  such  subjects  for  doubt, 
for  cavil,  for  uneasiness;  as  fast  as  one  is  obviated,  another 
to  be  introduced,  and  not  by  myself — know  not  how  intro- 
duced.— What  pleasure  can  I  propose  to  myself  in  meeting 
such  a  wretch? 

V  Perfect  for  me,  my  dearest  Miss  Howe,  perfect  for  me,  I 
beseech  you,  your  kind  scheme  with  Mrs.  Townsend;  and 
I  will  then  leave  this  man. 

My  temper,  I  believe,  is  changed.  No  wonder  if  it  be. 
I  question  whether  ever  it  will  be  what  it  was.  But  I 
cannot  make  him  half  so  uneasy  by  the  change,  as  I  am 
myself.  See  you  not  how,  from  step  to  step,  he  grows  upon 
me? — I  tremble  to  look  back  upon  his  encroachments.  And 
now  to  give  me  cause  to  apprehend  more  evil  from  him,  than 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  185 

indignation  will  permit  me  to  express! — Oh,  my  dear,  perfect 
your  scheme,  and  let  me  fly  from  so  strange  a  wretch? 

Yet,  to  be  first  an  eloper  from  my  friends  to  him,  as  the 
world  supposes;  and  now  to  be  so  from  him  [to  whom  I 
know  not !]  how  hard  to  one  who  ever  endeavoured  to  shun 
intricate  paths !  But  he  must  certainly  have  views  in  quar- 
relling with  me  thus,  which  he  dare  not  o^vn ! — Yet  what 
can  they  be? — I  am  terrified  but  to  think  of  what  they  may 
be! 

Let  me  hut  get  from  him ! — As  to  my  reputation,  if  I  leave 
him — that  is  already  too  much  wounded  for  me  now  to  be 
careful  about  anything,  but  how  to  act  so  as  that  my  own 
heart  shall  not  reproach  me.  As  to  the  world's  censure,  I 
must  be  content  to  suffer  that — an  unhappy  composition, 
however. — What  a  wreck  have  my  fortunes  suffered,  to  be 
obliged  to  throw  overboard  so  many  valuables,  to  preserve, 
indeed,  the  only  valuable ! — A  composition  that  once  it  would 
have  broken  my  heart  to  think  there  would  have  been  the 
least  danger  that  I  should  be  obliged  to  submit  to. 

You,  my  dear,  could  not  be  a  stranger  to  my  most  secret  » 
failings,  although  you  would  not  tell  me  of  them.  What 
a  pride  did  I  take  in  the  applause  of  every  one ! — What  a 
pride  even  in  supposing  I  had  not  that  pride ! — Which  con- 
cealed itself  from  my  unexamining  heart  under  the  specious 
veil  of  humility,  doubling  the  merit  to  myself  by  the  sup- 
posed, and  indeed  imputed,  gracefulness  in  the  manner  of 
conferring  benefits,  when  I  had  not  a  single  merit  in  what 
I  did,  vastly  overpaid  by  the  pleasure  of  doing  some  little 
good,  and  impelled,  as  I  may  say,  by  talents  given  me — for 
what? — Not  to  be  proud  of. 

So  desirous,  in  short,  to  be  considered  as  an  example!  A 
vanity  which  my  partial  admirers  put  into  my  head ! — And 
so  secure  in  my  own  virtue ! 

I  am  punished  enough,  enough  mortified,  for  this  my 
vanity — I  hope,  enough,  if  it  so  please  the  All-gracious 
inflictor:  since  now,  I  verily  think,  I  more  despise  myself 
for  my  presumptuous  self-security,  as  well  as  vanity,  than 
ever   I   secretly  vaunted  myself   on  my  good  inclinations: 


186  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

secretly,  I  say,  however;  for  indeed  I  had  not  given  myself 
leisure  to  reflect,  till  I  was  thus  mortified,  how  very  imper- 
fect I  was;  nor  how  much  truth  there  is  in  what  divines 
tell  us,  that  we  sin  in  our  best  performances. 

But  I  was  very  young. — But  here  let  me  watch  over  myself 
again:  for  in  those  four  words,  /  was  very  young,  is  there 
not  a  palliation  couched,  that  were  enough  to  take  all  ef- 
ficacy from  the  discovery  and  confession? 

What  strange  imperfect  beings ! — but  self  here,  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  we  do,  and  of  all  we  wish,  is  the  grand 
misleader. 

I  will  not  apologise  to  you,  my  dear,  for  these  grave  re- 
flections. Is  it  not  enough  to  make  the  unhappy  creature 
look  into  herself,  and  endeavour  to  detect  herself,  who,  from 
such  a  high  reputation,  left  to  proud  and  presumptuous  self, 
should,  by  one  thoughtless  step,  be  brought  to  the  dreadful 
situation  I  am  in? 

Let  me,  however,  look  forward :  to  despond  would  be  to 
add  sin  to  sin.  And  whom  have  I  to  raise  me  up,  whom 
to  comfort  me,  if  I  desert  myself^ — Thou,  0  Father,  who, 
I  hope,  hast  not  yet  deserted,  hast  not  yet  cursed  me ! — 
For  I  am  Thine ! — It  is  fit  that  meditation  should  supply 
the  rest. — 

I  WAS  so  disgusted  with  him,  as  well  as  frighted  by  him, 
that  on  my  return  to  my  chamber,  in  a  fit  of  passionate 
despair,  I  tore  almost  in  two  the  answer  I  had  written  to  his 
proposals. 

I  will  see  him  in  the  morning,  because  I  promised  I 
would.  But  I  will  go  out,  and  that  without  him,  or  any 
attendant.  If  he  account  not  tolerably  for  his  sudden  change 
of  behaviour,  and  a  proper  opportunity  offer  of  a  private 
lodging  in  some  creditable  house,  I  will  not  any  more  re- 
turn to  this : — at  present  I  think  so. — And  there  will  I  either 
attend  the  perfecting  of  your  scheme ;  or,  by  your  epistolary 
mediation,  make  my  own  terms  with  the  wretch;  since  it 
is  your  opinion  that  I  must  be  his,  and  cannot  help  myself: 
or  perhaps  take  a  resolution  to  throw  myself  at  once  into 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  187 

Lady  Betty's   protection;   and  tliis   will  hinder  him   from 
making  his  insolently  threatened  visit  to  Harlowe  Place. 

[The  lady  writes  again  on  Monday  evening;  and  gives  her 
friend  an  account  of  all  that  passed  between  herself  and 
Mr.  Lovelace  that  day;  and  of  her  being  terrified  out 
of  her  purpose  of  going  out :  but  Mr.  Lovelace's  next 
letters  giving  a  more  ample  account  of  all,  hers  are  omitted. 

It  is  proper,  however,  to  mention,  that  she  re-urges  Miss 
Howe  (from  the  dissatisfaction  she  has  reason  for  from 
what  passed  between  Mr.  Lovelace  and  herself)  to  per- 
fect her  scheme  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Townsend.  She  con- 
cludes this  letter  in  these  words :] 

I  should  say  some  thing  of  your  last  favour  (but  a  few 
hours  ago  received)  and  of  your  dialogue  with  your  mother. 
— Are  you  not  very  whimsical,  my  dear?  I  have  but  two 
things  to  wish  for  on  this  occasion. — The  one,  that  your 
charming  pleasantry  had  a  better  subject  than  that  you 
find  for  it  in  this  dialogue — the  other,  that  my  situation 
were  not  such  as  must  too  often  damp  that  pleasantry  in 
you,  and  will  not  permit  me  to  enjoy  it,  as  I  used  to  do. 
Be,  however,  happy  in  yourself,  though  you  cannot  in 

Clarissa  Harlowe. 


LETTEE  XL. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  Jolin  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday  Morning,  May  E2. 

No  generosity  in  this  lady.  None  at  all.  Wouldst  thou 
not  have  thought,  that  after  I  had  permitted  her  to  with- 
draw, primed  for  mischief  as  I  was,  she  would  meet  me 
next  morning  early;  and  that  with  a  smile;  making  me 
one  of  her  best  courtesies? 


188  THE   HISTORY    OF 

I  was  in  the  dining-room  before  six,  expecting  her.  She 
opened  not  her  door.  I  went  up  stairs  and  down;  and 
hemmed ;  and  called  Will. ;  called  Dorcas ;  threw  the  doors 
hard  to;  but  still  she  opened  not  her  door.  Thus  till  half 
an  hour  after  eight,  fooled  I  away  my  time;  and  then  (break- 
fast ready)  I  sent  Dorcas  to  request  her  company. 

But  I  was  astonished  when  (following  the  wench,  as  she 
did  at  the  first  invitation)  I  saw  her  enter  dressed,  all  but 
her  gloves,  and  those  and  her  fan  in  her  hand;  in  the  same 
moment  bidding  Dorcas  direct  Will,  to  get  her  a  chair  to 
the  door. 

Cruel  creature,  thought  I,  to  expose  me  thus  to  the  de- 
rision of  the  women  below ! 

Going  abroad,  Madam? 

I  am,  sir. 

I  looked  cursed  silly,  I  am  sure.  You  will  breakfast  first, 
I  hope.  Madam;  and  a  very  humble  strain;  yet  with  a  hun- 
dred tender  looks  in  my  heart. 

Had  she  given  me  more  notice  of  her  intention,  I  had 
perhaps  wrought  myself  up  to  the  frame  I  was  in  the  day 
before,  and  begun  my  vengeance.  And  immediately  came 
into  my  head  all  the  virulence  that  had  been  transcribed 
for  me  from  Miss  Howe's  letters,  and  in  that  letter  which 
I  had  transcribed  myself. 

Yes,  she  would  drink  one  dish;  and  then  laid  her  gloves 
and  fan  in  the  window  just  by. 

I  was  perfectly  disconcerted.  I  hemmed,  and  was  going 
to  speak  several  times;  but  I  knew  not  in  what  key. 
Who's  modest  now !  thought  I.  Who's  insolent  now ! — 
How  a  tyrant  of  a  woman  confounds  a  bashful  man !  She 
was  acting  Miss  Howe,  I  thought;  and  I  the  spiritless 
Hickman. 

At  last,  I  will  begin,  thought  I. 

She  a  dish — I  a  dish. 

Sip,  her  eyes  her  own;  she,  like  a  haughty  and  imperious 
sovereign,  conscious  of  dignity,  every  look  a  favour. 

Sip,  like  her  vassal,  I ;  lips  and  hands  trembling,  and 
not  knowing  that  I  sipped  or  tasted. 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  189 

1  was — I  was — I  sipped — (drawing  in  my  breath  and 
the  liquor  together,  though  I  scalded  my  mouth  with  it) 
I  was  in  hopes.  Madam 

Dorcas  came  in  just  then. — Dorcas,  said  she,  is  a  chair 
gone  for? 

Damned  impertinence,  thought  I,  thus  to  put  me  out  in 
my  speech !  And  I  was  forced  to  wait  for  the  servant's 
answer  to  the  insolent  mistress's  question. 

William  is  gone  for  one,  Madam. 

This  cost  me  a  minute's  silence  before  I  could  begin  again. 
And  then  it  was  with  my  hopes,  and  my  hopes,  and  my 
hopes,  that  I  should  have  been  early  admitted  to 

What  weather  is  it,  Dorcas?  said  she,  as  regardless  of  me 
as  if  I  had  not  been  present. 

A  little  lowering,  Madam — the  sun  is  gone  in — it  was  very 
fine  half  an  hour  ago. 

I  had  no  patience.  Up  I  rose.  Down  went  the  tea-cup, 
saucer  and  all — Confound  the  weather,  the  sunshine,  and 
the  wench  ! — Begone  for  a  devil,  when  I  am  speaking  to  your 
lady,  and  have  so  little  opportunity  given  me. 

Up  rose  the  saucy-face,  half-f righted ;  and  snatched  from 
the  window  her  gloves  and  fan. 

You  must  not  go.  Madam ! — Seizing  her  hand — by  my 
soul  you  must  not 

Must  not,  sir ! — But  I  must — you  can  curse  your  maid  in 
my  absence,  as  well  as  if  I  were  present Except — ex- 
cept— you  intend  for  me,  what  you  direct  to  lier. 

Dearest  creature,  you  must  not  go — you  must  not  leave 
me — Such  determined  scorn !  such  contempts  ! — Questions 
asked  your  servant  of  no  meaning  but  to  break  in  upon  me — 
I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Detain  me  not  [struggling].  I  will  not  be  withheld.  I 
like  you  not,  nor  your  ways.  You  sought  to  quarrel  with 
me  5^esterday,  for  no  reason  in  the  world  that  I  can  thinlc  of, 
hut  hecause  I  was  too  obliging.  You  are  an  ungrateful  man; 
and  I  hate  you  with  my  whole  heart,  Mr.  Lovelace ! 

Do  not  make  me  desperate,  Madam.  Permit  me  to  say 
that  you  shall  not  leave  me  in  this  humour.     Wherever  you 


190  THE   HISTORY   OF 

go,  I  will  attend  you.  Had  Miss  Howe  been  my  friend.  I 
had  not  been  thus  treated.  It  is  but  too  plain  to  whom  my 
difficulties  are  owing.  I  have  long  observed  that  every  letter 
you  received  from  her,  makes  an  alteration  in  your  behaviour 
to  me.  She  would  have  you  treat  me,  as  she  treats  Mr.  Hick- 
man, I  suppose;  but  neither  does  that  treatment  become  your 
admirable  temper  to  offer,  nor  me  to  receive. 

This  startled  her.  She  did  not  care  to  have  me  think 
hardly  of  Miss  Howe. 

But  recollecting  herself,  Miss  Howe,  said  she,  is  a  friend 
to  virtue  and  to  good  men.  If  she  like  not  you,  it  is  because 
you  are  not  one  of  those. 

Yes,  Madam;  and  therefore  to  speak  of  Mr.  Hickman  and 
myself,  as  you  both,  I  suppose,  think  of  each,  she  treats  him 
as  she  would  not  treat  a  Lovelace. — I  challenge  you.  Madam, 
to  show  me  but  one  of  the  many  letters  you  have  received 
from  her  where  I  am  mentioned. 

Miss  Howe  is  just;  Miss  Howe  is  good,  replied  she.  She 
writes,  she  speaks,  of  everybody  as  they  deserve.  If  you 
point  me  out  but  any  one  occasion,  upon  which  you  have 
reason  to  build  a  merit  to  yourself,  as  either  just  or  good,  or 
even  generous,  I  will  look  out  for  her  letter  on  that  occasion 
[if  such  an  occasion  there  be,  I  have  certainly  acquainted  her 
with  it]  ;  and  will  engage  it  shall  be  in  your  favour. 

Devilish  severe !  And  as  indelicate  as  severe,  to  put  a  mod- 
ish man  upon  hunting  backward  after  his  own  merits. 

She  would  have  flung  from  me:  I  will  not  be  detained, 
Mr.  Lovelace.    I  will  go  out. 

Indeed  you  must  not,  Madam,  in  this  humour.  And  I 
placed  myself  between  her  and  the  door. And  then,  fan- 
ning, she  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  her  sweet  face  all  crim- 
soned over  with  passion. 

I  cast  myself  at  her  feet. — Begone,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  she, 
with  a  rejecting  motion,  her  fan  in  her  hand;  for  your  own 
sake  leave  me ! — My  soul  is  above  thee,  man !  with  both  her 
hands  pushing  me  from  her ! — Urge  me  not  to  tell  thee,  how 
sincerely  I  think  my  soul  above  thee ! — Thou  hast,  in  mine, 
a  proud,  a  too  proud  heart  to  contend  with ! — Leave  me,  and 


CLARISSA   HABLOWE.  191 

leave  me  for  ever ! — Thou  hast  a  proud  heart  to  contend 
with! 

Her  air,  her  manner,  her  voice,  were  bewitchingly  noble, 
though  her  words  were  so  severe. 

Let  me  worship  an  angel,  said  I,  no  woman.  Forgive  me, 
dearest  creature ! — creature  if  you  be,  forgive  me ! — forgive 
my  inadvertencies ! — forgive  my  inequalities ! — pity  my  in- 
firmities ! — Who  is  equal  to  my  Clarissa  ? 

I  trembled  between  admiration  and  love;  and  wrapt  my 
arms  about  her  knees,  as  she  sat.  She  tried  to  rise  at  the 
moment;  but  my  clasping  round  her  thus  ardently,  drew 
her  down  again ;  and  never  was  woman  more  affrighted.  But 
free  as  my  clasping  emotion  might  appear  to  her  apprehen- 
sive heart,  I  had  not,  at  the  instant,  any  thought  but  what 
reverence  inspired.  And  till  she  had  actually  withdrawn 
[which  I  permitted  under  promise  of  a  speedy  return,  and 
on  her  consent  to  dismiss  the  chair]  all  the  motions  of  my 
heart  were  as  pure  as  her  own. 

She  kept  not  her  word.  An  hour  I  waited  before  I  sent  to 
claim  her  promise.  She  could  not  possibly  see  me  yet,  was 
her  answer.    As  soon  as  she  could,  she  would. 

Dorcas  says  she  still  excessively  trembled;  and  ordered  her 
to  give  her  hartshorn  and  water. 

A  strange  apprehensive  creature !  Her  terror  is  too  great 
for  the  occasion.  Evils  are  often  greater  in  apprehension 
than  in  reality.  Hast  thou  never  observed,  that  the  terrors 
of  a  bird  caught,  and  actually  in  the  hand,  bear  no  compari- 
son to  what  we  might  have  supposed  those  terrors  would  be, 
were  we  to  have  formed  a  judgment  of  the  same  bird  by  its 
shyness  before  it  was  taken? 

Dear  creature ! — Did  she  never  romp  ?  Did  she  never,  from 
girlhood  to  now.  hoyden?  The  innocent  kinds  of  freedom 
taken  and  allowed  on  these  occasions,  would  have  familiarised 
her  to  greater.  Sacrilege  but  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  gar- 
ment ! — Excess  of  delicacy ! — Oh,  the  consecrated  beauty ! 
How  can  she  think  to  be  a  wife  ? 

But  how  do  I  know  till  I  try,  whether  she  may  not  by  a 
less  alarming  treatment  be  prevailed  upon,  or  whether  \^day. 


192  THE   HISTORY    OF 

I  have  done  with  thee!]  she  may  not  yield  to  nightly  sur- 
prises f  This  is  still  the  burden  of  my  song,  I  can  marry  her 
when  I  will.  And  if  1  do,  after  prevailing  (whether  by  sur- 
prise, or  by  reluctant  consent),  whom  but  myself  shall  I  have 
injured? 

It  is  now  eleven  o'clock.  She  will  see  me  as  soon  as  she 
can,  she  tells  Polly  Horton,  who  made  her  a  tender  visit,  and 
to  whom  she  is  less  reserved  than  to  anybody  else.  Her  emo- 
tion, she  assures  her,  was  not  owing  to  perverseness,  to  nicety, 
to  ill  humour;  but  to  weakness  of  heart.  She  has  not  strength 
of  mind  sufficient,  she  says,  to  enable  her  to  support  her  con- 
dition. 

Yet  what  a  contradiction! — Weakness  of  heart,  says  she, 
with  such  a  strength  of  will! — Oh  Belford!  she  is  a  lion- 
hearted  lady,  in  every  case  where  her  honour,  her  pimctilio 
rather,  calls  for  spirit.  But  I  have  had  reason  more  than 
once  in  her  case,  to  conclude  that  the  passions  of  the  gentle, 
slower  to  be  moved  than  those  of  the  quick,  are  the  most 
flaming,  the  most  irresistible,  when  raised. — Yet  her  charm- 
ing body  is  not  equally  organized.  The  unequal  partners  pull 
two  ways ;  and  the  divinity  within  her  tears  her  silken  frame. 
But  had  the  same  soul  informed  a  masculine  body,  never 
would  there  have  been  a  truer  hero. 


Monday,  two  o'clock. 

Not  yet  visible! — My  beloved  is  not  well.  What  expecta- 
tions had  she  from  my  ardent  admiration  of  her! — More 
rudeness  than  revenge  apprehended.  Yet  how  my  soul 
thirsts  for  revenge  upon  both  these  ladies?  I  must  have 
recourse  to  my  master-strokes.  This  cursed  project  of  Miss 
Howe  and  her  Mrs.  Townsend  (if  I  cannot  contrive  to  ren- 
der it  abortive)  will  be  always  a  sword  hanging  over  my  head. 
Upon  every  little  disobligation  my  beloved  will  be  for  tak- 
ing wing;  and  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  deprive  her  of  every 
other  refuge  or  protection,  in  order  to  make  her  absolutely 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  193 

dependent  upon  me,  will  be  all  thrown  away.     But  perhaps 
I  shall  find  out  a  smuggler  to  counterplot  Miss  Howe. 

Thou  rememberest  the  contention  between  the  sun  and  the 
north  wind,  in  the  fable;  which  should  first  make  an  honest 
traveller  throw  off  his  cloak. 

Boreas  began  first.  He  puffed  away  most  vehemently ;  and 
often  made  the  poor  fellow  curve  and  stagger;  but  with  no 
other  effect,  than  to  cause  him  to  wrap  his  surtout  the  closer 
about  him. 

But  when  it  came  to  Phoebus's  turn,  he  so  played  upon  the 
traveller  with  his  beams,  that  he  made  him  first  unbutton, 
and  then  throw  it  quite  off : — nor  left  he  till  he  obliged  him 
to  take  to  the  friendly  shade  of  a  spreading  beech;  where 
prostrating  himself  on  the  thrown-off  cloak,  he  took  a  com- 
fortable nap. 

The  victor-god  then  laughed  outriglit,  both  at  Boreas  and 
the  traveller,  and  pursued  his  radiant  course  shining  upon, 
and  warming  and  cherishing  a  thousand  new  objects,  as  he 
danced  along:  and  at  night,  when  he  put  up  his  fiery  cours- 
ers, he  diverted  his  Thetis  with  the  relation  of  his  pranks  in 
the  passed  day. 

I,  in  like  manner,  will  discard  all  my  boisterous  inventions : 
and  if  I  can  oblige  my  sweet  traveller  to  throw  aside,  hut  for 
one  moment,  the  cloak  of  her  rigid  virtue,  I  shall  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  but,  like  the  sun,  to  bless  new  objects  with  my 
rays.  But  my  chosen  hours  of  conversation  and  repose,  after 
all  my  peregrinations,  will  be  devoted  to  my  goddess. 

And  now  Belford,  according  to  my  new  system,  I  think 
this  house  of  Mrs.  Fretchville  an  embarrass  upon  me.  I  will 
get  rid  of  it;  for  some  time  at  least.  Mennell,  when  I  am 
out,  shall  come  to  her,  inquiring  for  me.  What  for?  thou'lt 
ask.  What  for — hast  thou  not  heard  what  has  befallen  poor 
Mrs.  Fretchville  ?    Then  I'll  tell  thee. 

One  of  her  maids,  about  a  week  ago,  was  taken  with  the 
small-pox.  The  rest  kept  their  mistress  ignorant  of  it  till 
Friday;  and  tlien  she  came  to  know  it  by  accident.  The 
greater  half  of  the  plagues  poor  mortals  of  condition  are  tor- 


194  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

mented  with,  proceed  from  the  servants  they  take  partly 
for  show,  partly  for  use,  and  with  a  view  to  lessen  their 
cares. 

This  has  so  terrified  the  widow,  that  she  is  taken  with  all 
the  symptoms  that  threaten  an  attack  from  that  dreadful 
enemy  of  fair  faces. — So  must  not  think  of  removing:  yet 
cannot  expect  that  we  should  be  further  delayed  on  her  ac- 
count. 

She  now  wishes,  with  all  her  heart,  that  she  had  known 
her  own  mind,  and  gone  into  the  country  at  first  when  I 
treated  about  the  house.  This  evil  then  had  not  happened! 
a  cursed  cross  accident  for  us^  too ! — Heigh-ho !  nothing  else, 
I  think,  in  this  mortal  life !  people  need  not  study  to  bring 
crosses  upon  themselves  by  their  petulancies. 

So  this  affair  of  the  house  will  be  over;  at  least  for  one 
while.  But  then  I  can  fall  upon  an  expedient  which  will 
make  amends  for  this  disappointment.  I  must  move  slow, 
in  order  to  be  sure.  I  have  a  charming  contrivance  or  two  in 
my  head,  even  supposing  my  beloved  should  get  away,  to 
bring  her  back  again. 

But  what  has  become  of  Lord  M.  I  trow,  that  he  writes 
not  to  me,  in  answer  to  my  invitation  ?  If  he  would  send  me 
such  a  letter  as  I  could  show,  it  might  go  a  great  way  towards 
a  perfect  reconciliation.  I  have  written  to  Charlotte  about 
it.  He  shall  soon  hear  from  me,  and  that  in  a  way  he  won't 
like,  if  he  writes  not  quickly.  He  has  sometimes  threatened 
to  disinherit  me.  But  if  I  should  renounce  liim,  it  would  be 
but  justice,  and  would  vex  him,  ten  times  more  than  any- 
thing he  can  do  will  vex  me.  Then,  the  settlements  unavoid- 
ably delayed  by  his  neglect ! — How  shall  I  bear  such  a  life  of 
procrastination !  I,  who,  as  to  my  will,  and  impatience,  and 
so  forth,  am  of  the  true  lady-make,  and  can  as  little  bear  con- 
trol and  disappointment  as  the  best  of  them. 

An^other  letter  from  Miss  Howe.  I  suppose  it  is  thai 
which  she  promises  in  her  last  to  send  her  relating  to  the 
courtship  between  old  Tony  the  uncle,  and  Annabella  the 
mother.    I  should  be  extremely  rejoiced  to  see  it.    No  more 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  195 

of  the  smuggler-plot  in  it,  surely.  This  letter,  it  seems,  she 
has  put  in  her  pocket.  But  I  hope  I  shall  soon  find  it  depos- 
ited with  the  rest. 


Monday  Morning. 

At  my  repeated  request  she  condescended  to  meet  me  in 
the  dining-room  to  afternoon  tea,  and  not  before. 

She  entered  with  bashfulness,  as  I  thought;  in  a  pretty 
confusion,  for  having  carried  her  apprehensions  too  far.  Sul- 
len and  slow  moved  she  towards  the  tea-table. — Dorcas  pres- 
ent, busy  in  tea-cup  preparations.  I  took  her  reluctant  hand, 
and  pressed  it  to  my  lips — Dearest,  loveliest  of  creatures,  why 
this  distance  ?  why  this  displeasure  ? — How  can  you  thus  tor- 
ture the  faithfullest  heart  in  the  world? 

She  disengaged  her  hand.  Again  I  would  have  snatched 
it. 

Be  quiet  [peevishly  withdrawing  it].  And  down  she  sat; 
a  gentle  palpitation  in  the  beauty  of  beauties  indicating 
mingled  sullenness  and  resentment;  her  snowy  handkerchief 
rising  and  falling,  and  a  sweet  flush  overspreading  her 
charming  cheeks. 

For  God's  sake,  Madam ! — [And  a  third  time  I  would  have 
taken  her  repulsing  hand.] 

And  for  the  same  sake,  sir,  no  more  teasing. 

Dorcas  retired;  I  drew  my  chair  nearer  hers,  and  with  the 
most  respectful  tenderness  took  her  hand;  and  told  her  that 
I  could  not  forbear  to  express  my  apprehensions  (from  the 
distance  she  was  so  desirous  to  keep  me  at)  that  if  any  man 
in  the  world  was  more  indifferent  to  her,  to  use  no  harsher 
a  word  than  another,  it  was  the  unhappy  wretch  before  her. 

She  looked  steadily  upon  me  for  a  moment,  and  with  her 
other  hand,  not  withdrawing  that  I  held,  pulled  her  handker- 
chief out  of  her  pocket ;  and  by  a  twinkling  motion  urged  for- 
ward a  tear  or  two,  which  having  arisen  in  each  sweet  eye, 
it  was  plain  by  that  motion  she  would  rather  have  dissipated : 
but  answered  me  only  with  a  sigh,  and  an  averted  face. 
Vol.  IV— 15. 


196  THE   HISTORY   OF 

I  urged  her  to  speak;  to  look  up  at  me;  to  bless  me  with 
an  eye  more  favourable. 

I  had  reason,  she  told  me,  for  my  complaint  of  her  indif- 
ference. She  saw  nothing  in  my  mind  that  was  generous. 
I  was  not  a  man  to  be  obliged  or  favoured.  My  strange  be- 
haviour to  her  since  Saturday  night,  for  no  cause  at  all  that 
she  knew  of,  convinced  her  of  this.  Whatever  hopes  she  had 
conceived  of  me  were  utterly  dissipated:  all  my  ways  were 
disgustful  to  her. 

This  cut  me  to  the  heart.  The  guilty,  I  believe,  in  every 
case,  less  patiently  bear  the  detecting  truth,  than  the  inno- 
cent do  the  degrading  falsehood. 

I  bespoke  her  patience,  while  I  took  the  liberty  to  account 
for  this  change  on  my  part. — I  re-acknowledged  the  pride  of 
my  heart,  which  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  that  want  of 
preference  in  the  heart  of  a  lady  whom  I  lioped  to  call  mine, 
which  she  had  always  manifested.  Marriage,  I  said,  was  a 
state  that  was  not  to  be  entered  upon  with  indifference  on 
either  side. 

It  is  insolence,  interrupted  she,  it  is  a  presumption,  sir,  to 
expect  tolrrns  of  value,  without  resolving  to  deserve  them. 
You  have  no  whining  creature  before  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  over- 
come by  weak  motives,  to  love  where  there  is  no  merit.  Miss 
Howe  can  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  never  loved  the  faults  of  my 
friend;  nor  ever  wished  her  to  love  me  for  mine.  It  was  a 
rule  with  us  not  to  spare  each  other.  And  would  a  man  who 
has  nothing  but  faults  (for  pray,  sir,  what  are  your  virtues?) 
expect  that  I  should  show  a  value  for  him  ?  Indeed,  if  I  did, 
I  should  not  deserve  even  his  value ;  but  ought  to  be  despised 
by  him. 

Well  have  you.  Madam,  kept  up  to  this  noble  manner  of 
thinking.  You  are  in  no  danger  of  being  despised  for  any 
marks  of  tenderness  or  favour  shown  to  the  man  before  you. 

You  have  been  perhaps,  you'll  think,  laudahly  studious  of 
making  and  taking  occasions  to  declare,  that  it  was  far  from 
being  o^dng  to  your  choice,  that  you  had  any  thoughts  of  me. 
My  whole  soul,  Madam,  in  all  its  errors,  in  all  its  wishes,  in 
all  its  views,  had  been  laid  open  and  naked  before  you.  had  I 


CLARIiiSA    UAELOWE.  197 

been  encouraged  by  such  a  share  in  your  confidence  and  es- 
teem, as  would  have  secured  me  against  your  apprehended 
worst  constructions  of  what  I  should  from  time  to  time  have 
revealed  to  you,  and  consulted  you  upon.  For  never  was 
there  a  franlcer  heart;  nor  a  man  so  ready  to  accuse  himself. 
[lliis,  Belford,  is  true.'\  But  you  know,  Madam,  how  much 
otherwise  it  has  been  between  us.  — Doubt,  distance,  reserve, 
on  your  part,  begat  doubt,  fear,  awe,  on  mine. — How  little 
confidence !  as  if  we  apprehended  each  other  to  be  a  plotter 
rather  than  a  lover.  How  have  I  dreaded  every  letter  that 
has  been  brought  you  from  Wilson's ! — and  with  reason :  since 
the  last,  from  which  I  expected  so  much,  on  account  of 
the  proposals  I  had  made  you  in  writing,  has,  if  I  may  judge 
by  the  effects,  and  by  your  denial  of  seeing  me  yesterday 
(though  you  could  go  abroad,  and  in  a  chair  too,  to  avoid  my 
attendance  on  you),  set  you  against  me  more  than  ever. 

I  was  guilty,  it  seems,  of  going  to  church,  said  the  indig- 
nant charmer;  and  without  the  company  of  a  man,  whose 
choice  it  would  not  have  been  to  go,  had  I  not  gone — I  was 
guilty  of  desiring  to  have  the  whole  Sunday  to  myself,  after 
I  had  obliged  you,  against  my  will,  at  a  play;  and  after  you 
had  detained  me  (equally  to  my  dislike)  to  a  very  late  hour 
over-night. — These  were  my  faults :  for  these  I  was  to  be  pun- 
ished: I  was  to  be  compelled  to  see  you,  and  to  be  terrified 
when  I  did  see  you,  by  the  most  shocking  ill-humour  that 
was  ever  shown  to  a  creature  in  my  circumstances,  and  not 
bound  to  bear  it.  You  have  pretended  to  find  free  fault 
with  my  father's  temper,  Mr.  Lovelace :  but  the  worst  that 
he  ever  showed  after  marriage,  was  not  in  the  least  to  be 
compared  to  what  you  have  shown  twenty  times  heforeliand. 
— And  what  are  my  prospects  with  you,  at  the  very  best? — 
My  indignation  rises  against  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  while  I  speak 
to  you,  when  I  recollect  the  many  instances,  equally  unfren- 
erous  and  unpolite,  of  your  behaviour  to  one  whom  you  have 
brought  into  distress — and  I  can  hardly  bear  you  in  ray  sight. 

She  turned  from  me,  standing  up;  and  lifting  up  hrr 
folded  hands,  and  charming  eyes  svnmming  in  tears :  Oh, 
my  father,   said  the  inimitable  creature,   you   might   have 


198  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

spared  your  heavy  curse,  had  you  known  how  I  have  been 
punished  ever  since  my  swerving  feet  led  me  out  of  your  gar- 
den-doors to  meet  this  man! — Then,  sinking  into  her  chair, 
a  burst  of  passionate  tears  forced  their  way  down  her  glow- 
ing cheeks. 

My  dearest  life  [taking  her  still  folded  hands  in  mine], 
who  can  bear  an  invocation  so  affecting,  though  so  passion- 
ate? 

And,  as  I  hope  to  live,  my  nose  tingled,  as  I  once,  when  a 
boy,  remember  it  did  (and  indeed  once  more  very  lately)  just 
before  some  tears  came  into  my  eyes;  and  I  durst  hardly 
trust  my  face  in  view  of  hers.  , 

What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  impatient  exclamation? 
— Have  I,  at  any  time,  by  word,  by  deeds,  by  looks,  given  you 
cause  to  doubt  my  honour,  my  reverence,  my  adoration,  I 
may  call  it,  of  your  virtues?  All  is  owing  to  misapprehen- 
sion, I  hope,  on  both  sides.  Condescend  to  clear  up  but  your 
part,  as  I  will  mine,  and  all  must  speedily  be  happy. — Would 
to  Heaven  I  loved  that  Heaven  as  I  love  you!  and  yet,  if  I 
doubted  a  return  in  love,  let  me  perish  if  I  should  know 
how  to  wish  you  mine ! — Give  me  hope,  dearest  creature, 
give  me  but  hope  that  I  am  your  preferable  choice ! — Give 
me  but  hope  that  you  hate  me  not:  that  you  do  not  despise 
me. 

0  Mr.  Lovelace,  we  have  been  long  enough  together  to 
be  tired  of  each  other's  humours  and  ways;  ways  and  hu- 
mours so  different,  that  perhaps  you  ought  to  dislike  me,  as 
much  as  I  do  you. — I  think,  I  think,  that  I  cannot  make  an 
answerable  return  to  the  value  you  profess  for  me.  My  tem- 
per is  utterly  ruined.  You  have  given  me  an  ill  opinion  of 
all  mankind;  of  yourself  in  particular:  and  withal  so  bad 
a  one  of  myself,  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  look  up,  hav- 
ing utterly  and  for  ever  lost  all  that  self-complacency,  and 
conscious  pride,  which  are  so  necessary  to  carry  a  woman 
through  this  life  with  tolerable  satisfaction  to  herself. 

She  paused.  I  was  silent.  By  my  soul,  thought  T,  this 
sweet  creature  will  at  last  undo  me ! 

She  proceeded:     What  now  remains  but  that  you   pro- 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  199 

nounce  me  free  of  all  obligation  to  you?  and  that  you  hin- 
der me  not  from  pursuing  the  destiny  that  shall  be  allotted 
me? 

Again  she  paused.  I  was  still  silent;  meditating  whether 
to  renounce  all  further  designs  upon  her;  whether  I  had  not 
received  sufficient  evidence  of  a  virtue,  and  of  a  greatness 
of  soul  that  could  not  be  questioned  or  impeached. 

She  went  on :  Propitious  to  me  be  your  silence,  Mr.  Love- 
lace!— Tell  me  that  I  am  free  of  all  obligation  to  you. 
You  know  I  never  made  you  promises.  You  know  that 
you  are  not  under  any  to  me. — My  broken  fortunes  I  matter 
not 

She  was  proceeding — My  dearest  life,  said  I,  I  have  been 
all  this  time,  though  you  fill  me  with  doubts  of  your  favour, 
busy  in  the  nuptial  preparations.  I  am  actually  in  treaty 
for  equipage. 

Equipage,  sir ! — Trappings,  tinsel ! — What  is  equipage ; 
what  is  life;  what  is  an}i;hing;  to  a  creature  sunk  so  low  as  I 
am  in  my  own  opinion ! — Labouring  under  a  father's  curse ! 
— Unable  to  look  backward  without  self-reproach,  or  for- 
ward without  terror! — These  reflections  strengthened  by 
every  cross  accident! — And  what  but  cross  accidents  befall 
me ! — All  my  darling  schemes  dashed  in  pieces,  all  my  hopes 
at  an  end ;  deny  me  not  the  liberty  to  refuge  myself  in  some 
obsciire  corner,  where  neither  the  enemies  you  have  made 
me,  nor  the  few  friends  you  have  left  me,  may  ever  hear  of 
the  supposed  rash-one,  till  those  happy  moments  are  at  hand, 
which  shall  expiate  for  all ! 

I  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  myself.  Such  a  war  in  my 
mind  had  I  never  known.  Gratitude,  and  admiration  of 
the  excellent  creature  before  me,  combating  with  villainous 
habit,  with  resolutions  so  premeditatedly  made,  and  with 
views  so  much  gloried  in ! — A  hundred  new  contrivances  in 
my  head,  and  in  my  heart,  that  to  be  honest,  as  it  is  called, 
must  all  be  given  up  by  a  heart  delighting  in  intrigue  and 
difficulty — Miss  Howe's  virulences  endeavoured  to  be  recol- 
lected— yet  recollection  refusing  to  bring  them  forward  with 
the   requisite   efficacy — I   had   certainly   been   a   lost   man, 


200  THE   HISTORY    OF 

had  not  Dorcas  come  seasonably  in  with  a  letter. — On  the 
superscription  written — Be  pleased,  sir,  to   open  it  now. 

I  retired  to  the  window — opened  it — it  was  from  Dorcas 
herself. — These  the  contents — '  Be  pleased  to  detain  my  lady : 
'  a  paper  of  importance  to  transcribe.  I  will  cough  when 
'  I  have  done.' 

I  put  the  paper  in  my  pocket,  and  turned  to  my  charmer, 
less  disconcerted,  as  she,  by  that  time,  had  also  a  little  re- 
covered herself. — One  favour,  dearest  creature — Let  me  but 
know  whether  Miss  Howe  approves  or  disapproves  of  my 
proposals?  I  know  her  to  be  my  enemy.  I  was  intending 
to  account  to  you  for  the  change  of  behavior  you  accused 
me  of  at  the  beginning  of  the  conversation;  but  was  diverted 
from  it  by  your  vehemence.  Indeed,  my  beloved  creature, 
you  were  very  vehement.  Do  you  think  it  must  not  be 
matter  of  high  regret  to  me,  to  find  my  wishes  so  often 
delayed  and  postponed  in  favour  of  your  predominant  view 
to  a  reconciliation  with  relations  who  will  not  be  reconciled 
to  you? — To  this  was  owing  your  declining  to  celebrate 
our  nuptials  before  we  came  to  town,  though  you  were  so 
atrociously  treated  by  your  sister,  and  your  whole  family; 
and  though  so  ardently  pressed  to  celebrate  by  me — to  this 
was  owing  the  ready  offence  you  took  at  my  four  friends; 
and  at  the  unavailing  attempt  I  made  to  see  a  dropt  letter; 
little  imagining,  from  what  two  such  ladies  could  write  to 
each  other,  that  there  could  be  room  for  mortal  displeasure — 
to  this  was  owing  the  week's  distance  you  held  me  at,  till 
you  knew  the  issue  of  another  application. — But  when  they 
had  rejected  that;  when  you  had  sent  my  cold-received 
proposals  to  Miss  Howe  for  her  approbation  or  advice,  as 
indeed  I  advised;  and  had  honoured  me  with  your  company 
at  the  play  on  Saturday  night  (my  whole  behaviour  un- 
objectionable to  the  last  hour) ;  must  not.  Madam,  the  sudden 
change  in  your  conduct,  the  very  next  morning,  astonish  and 
distress  me? — and  this  persisted  in  with  still  stronger  de- 
clarations, after  you  had  received  the  impatiently  expected 
letter  from  Miss  Howe;  must  I  not  conclude  that  all  was 
owing  to  her  influence;  and  that  some  other  application  or 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  201 

project  was  meditating,  that  made  it  necessary  to  keep  me 
again  at  distance  till  the  result  were  known,  and  which 
was  to  deprive  me  of  you  for  ever?  For  was  not  that  your 
constantly-proposed  preliminary? — Well,  Madam,  might  I 
be  wrought  up  to  a  half-phrensy  by  this  apprehension;  and 
well  might  I  charge  you  with  hating  me. — And  now,  dearest 
creature,  let  me  know,  I  once  more  ask  you,  what  is  Miss 
Howe's  opinion  of  my  proposals? 

Were  I  disposed  to  debate  with  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  I  could 
very  easily  answer  your  fine  harangue.  But  at  present,  I 
shall  only  say,  that  your  ways  have  been  very  unaccountable. 
You  seem  to  me,  if  your  meanings  were  always  just,  to 
have  taken  great  pains  to  embarrass  them.  Whether  owing 
in  you  to  the  want  of  a  clear  head,  or  a  sound  heart,  I 
cannot  determine;  but  it  is  to  the  want  of  one  of  them, 
I  verily  think,  that  I  am  to  ascribe  the  greatest  part  of  your 
strange  conduct. 

Curse  upon  the  heart  of  the  little  devil,  said  I,  who  insti- 
gates you  to  think  so  hardly  of  the  faithfullest  heart  in 
the  world! 

How  dare  you,  sir!  And  there  she  stopt;  having  almost 
overshot  herself;  as  I  designed  she  should. 

How  dare  I  what.  Madam?  And  I  looked  with  meaning. 
How  dare  I  what? 

"Vile  man — And  do  you — And  there  again  she  stopt. 

Do  I  what.  Madam? — And  why  vile  man? 

How  dare  you  curse  amjbody  in  my  presence? 

Oh,  the  sweet  receder!  But  that  was  not  to  go  off  so 
with  a  Lovelace. 

Why  then,  dearest  creature,  is  there  amjlody  that  insti- 
gates you? — If  there  be,  again  I  curse  them,  be  they  whom 
they  will. 

She  was  in  a  charming  pretty  passion.  And  this  was  the 
first  time  that  I  had  the  odds  in  my  favour. 

Well,  Madam,  it  is  just  as  I  thouglit.  kn^  now  I  know 
how  to  account  for  a  temper  that  I  hope  is  not  natural 
to  you. 

Artful  wretch!  and  is  it  thus  you  would  entrap  me?    But 


203  THE   HISTORY    OF 

know,  sir,  that  I  received  letters  from  nobody  but  Miss  Howe. 
Miss  Howe  likes  some  of  your  ways  as  little  as  I  do;  for  I 
have  set  everything  before  her.  Yet  she  is  thus  far  your 
enemy,  as  she  is  mine.  She  thinks  I  could  not  refuse  your 
offers;  but  endeavour  to  make  the  best  of  my  lot.  And  now 
you  have  the  truth.  Would  to  Heaven  you  were  capable  of 
dealing  with  equal  sincerity ! 

I  am.  Madam.  And  here,  on  my  knee,  I  renew  my  vows, 
and  my  supplication  that  you  will  make  me  yours.  Yours 
for  ever.  And  let  me  have  cause  to  bless  you  and  Miss  Howe 
in  the  same  breath. 

To  say  the  truth,  Belford,  I  had  before  begun  to  think 
that  the  vixen  of  a  girl,  who  certainly  likes  not  Hickman, 
was  in  love  with  me. 

Else,  sir,  from  your  too  ready  knees ;  and  mock  me  not ! 

Too  ready  hnees,  thought  I !  Though  this  humble  posture 
so  little  affects  this  proud  beauty,  she  knows  not  how  much 
I  have  obtained  of  others  of  her  sex,  nor  how  often  I  have 
been  forgiven  for  the  last  attempts,  by  kneeling. 

Mock  you,  Madam !  And  I  arose,  and  re-urged  her  for  the 
day.  I  blamed  myself,  at  the  same  time,  for  the  invitation 
I  had  given  to  Lord  M.,  as  it  might  subject  me  to  delay 
from  his  infirmities:  but  told  her  that  I  would  write  to 
him  to  excuse  me,  if  she  had  no  ol)jection;  or  to  give  him 
the  day  she  would  give  me,  and  not  wait  for  him,  if  he 
could  not  come  in  time. 

My  day,  sir,  said  she,  is  never.  Be  not  surprised.  A 
person  of  politeness  judging  between  us,  would  not  be  sur- 
prised that  I  say  so.  But  indeed,  Mr.  Lovelace  [and  wept 
through  impatience],  you  either  know  not  how  to  treat  with 
a  mind  of  the  least  degree  of  delicacy,  notwitlistanding  your 
birth  and  education,  or  you  are  an  ungrateful  man;  and 
[after  a  pause]  a  worse  than  ungrateful  one.  But  I  will 
retire.  I  will  see  you  again  to-morrow.  I  cannot  before. 
I  think  I  hate  you.  You  may  look.  Indeed  I  think  I  hate 
you.  And  if,  upon  a  re-examination  of  my  own  heart,  I 
find  I  do,  I  would  not  for  the  world  that  matters  should  go 
on  further  between  us. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  203 

But  I  see,  I  see,  she  does  not  hate  me !  How  it  would 
mortify  my  vanity,  if  I  thought  there  was  a  woman  in  the 
world,  much  more  this,  that  could  hate  me !  'Tis  evident, 
villain  as  she  thinks  me,  that  I  should  not  be  an  odious 
villain,  if  I  could  but  at  last  in  one  instance  cease  to  be 
a  villain !  She  could  not  hold  it,  determined  as  she  had 
thought  herself,  I  saw  by  her  eyes,  the  moment  I  endeavoured 
to  dissipate  her  apprehensions,  on  my  too  ready  knees,  as 
she  calls  them.  The  moment  the  rough  covering  my  teasing 
behaviour  has  thrown  over  her  affections  is  quite  removed, 
I  doubt  not  to  find  all  silk  and  silver  at  the  bottom,  all 
soft,  bright  and  charming. 

I  was,  however,  too  much  vexed,  disconcerted,  mortified, 
to  hinder  her  from  retiring.  And  yet  she  had  not  gone,  if 
Dorcas  had  not  coughed. 

The  v^^ench  came  in,  as  soon  as  her  lady  had  retired,  and 
gave  me  the  copy  she  had  taken.  And  what  should  it  be 
but  of  the  answer  the  truly  admirable  creature  had  intended 
to  give  to  my  written  proposals  in  relation  to  settlements? 

I  have  but  just  dipt  into  this  affecting  paper.  Were  I 
to  read  it  attentively,  not  a  wink  should  I  sleep  this  night. 
To-morrow  it  shall  obtain  my  serious  consideration. 


LETTEE  XLI. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Tuesday  Morning,  May  23. 

The    dear   creature   desires   to   be   excused   seeing   me   till 
evening.     She  is  not  very  well,  as  Dorcas  tells  me. 

Eead  here,  if  thou  wilt,  the  paper  transcribed  by  Dorcas. 
It  is  impossible  that  I  should  proceed  with  my  projects 
against  this  admirable  woman,  were  it  not  that  I  am  re- 
solved, after  a  few  trials  more,  if  as  nobly  sustained  as 
those  she  has  passed  through,  to  make  her  (if  she  really 
hate  me  not)   legally  mine. 


204  THE   HISTORY    OF 


To  Mr.  Lovelace. 


'  When  a  woman  is  married,  the  supreme  earthly  obliga- 
tion requires,  that  in  all  instances,  where  her  husband's 
real  honour  is  concerned,  she  should  yield  her  own  will  to 
his.  But,  beforehand,  I  could  be  glad,  conformably  to 
what  I  have  always  signified,  to  have  the  most  explicit 
assurances,  that  every  possible  way  should  be  tried  to  avoid 
litigation  with  my  father.  Time  and  patience  will  subdue 
all  things.  My  prospects  of  happiness  are  extremely  con- 
tracted. A  husband's  right  will  be  always  the  same.  In 
my  lifetime  I  could  wish  nothing  to  be  done  of  this  sort. 
Your  circumstances,  sir,  will  not  oblige  you  to  extort  vio- 
lently from  him  what  is  in  his  hands.  All  that  depends 
upon  me,  either  with  regard  to  my  person,  to  my  diversions, 
or  to  the  economy  that  no  married  woman,  of  whatever 
rank  or  quality,  should  be  above  inspecting,  shall  be  done, 
to  prevent  a  necessity  for  such  measures  being  taken.  And 
if  there  will  be  no  necessity  for  them,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
motives  less  excusable  will  not  have  force — motives  which 
must  be  founded  in  a  littleness  of  mind,  which  a  woman, 
who  has  not  that  littleness  of  mind,  will  be  under  such  temp- 
tations, as  her  duty  will  hardly  be  able  at  all  times  to 
check,  to  despise  her  husband  for  having;  especially  in 
cases  where  her  own  family,  so  much  a  part  of  herself, 
and  which  will  have  obligations  upon  her  (though  then 
but  secondary  ones)  from  which  she  can  never  be  freed, 
is  intimately  concerned. 

*  This  article,  then,  I  urge  to  your  most  serious  considera- 
tion, as  what  lies  next  my  heart.  I  enter  not  here  minutely 
into  the  fatal  misunderstanding  between  them  and  you: 
the  fault  may  be  in  both.  But,  sir,  yours  was  the  found- 
ation-fault: at  least,  you  gave  a  too  plausible  pretence  for 
my  brother's  antipathy  to  work  upon.  Condescension  was 
no  part  of  your  study.  You  chose  to  bear  the  imputations 
laid  to  your  charge,  rather  than  to  make  it  your  endeavour 
to  obviate  them. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  205 

'  But  this  may  lead  into  hateful  recrimination. — Let  it 
be  remembered,  I  will  only  say,  in  this  place,  that,  in 
their  eye,  you  have  robbed  them  of  a  daughter  they  doated 
upon;  and  that  their  resentments  on  this  occasion  rise  but 
in  proportion  to  their  love  and  their  disappointment.  If 
they  were  faulty  in  some  of  the  measures  they  took,  while 
they  themselves  did  not  think  so,  who  shall  judge  for 
themf  You,  sir,  who  will  judge  everybody  as  you  please, 
and  will  let  nobody  judge  you  in  your  own  particular, 
must  not  be  their  judge. — It  may  therefore  be  expected  that 
they  will  stand  out. 

'  As  for  myself,  sir,  I  must  leave  it  (so  seems  it  to  be 
destined)  to  your  justice,  to  treat  me  as  you  shall  think 
I  deserve:  but  if  your  future  behaviour  to  them  is  not 
governed  by  that  harsh  sounding  implacableness,  which 
you  charge  upon  some  of  their  tempers,  the  splendour  of 
your  family,  and  the  excellent  character  of  some  of  them 
(of  all  indeed,  unless  your  own  conscience  furnishes  you 
with  one  only  exception)  will,  on  better  consideration,  do 
everything  with  them:  for  they  7nay  be  overcome;  perhaps, 
however,  with  the  more  difficulty,  as  the  greatly  prosperous 
less  bear  control  and  disappointments  than  others:  for  I 
will  own  to  you,  that  I  have  often  in  secret  lamented  that 
their  great  acquirements  have  been  a  snare  to  them;  per- 
haps as  great  a  snare  as  some  other  accidentals  have  been 
to  you;  which  being  less  immediately  your  own  gifts,  you 
have  still  less  reason  than  they  to  value  yourself  upon  them. 

'  Let  me  only,  on  this  subject,  further  observe,  that  con- 
descension is  not  meanness.  There  is  a  glory  in  yielding, 
that  hardly  any  violent  spirit  can  judge  of.  My  brother, 
perhaps,  is  no  more  sensible  of  this  than  you.  But  as  you 
have  talents  which  he  has  not  (who,  however,  has,  as  I 
hope,  that  regard  for  morals,  the  want  of  which  makes  one 
of  his  objections  to  you),  I  could  wish  it  may  not  be 
owing  to  yoii  that  your  mutual  dislikes  to  each  other  do 
not  subside!  for  it  is  my  earnest  hope,  that  in  time  you 
may  see  each  other  without  exciting  the  fears  of  a  wife 
and  a  sister  for  the  consequence.     Not  that  I  should  wish 


206  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  you  to  yield  in  points  that  truly  concerned  your  honour : 
'  no,  sir ;  I  would  be  as  delicate  in  such,  as  you  yourself : 
'  more  delicate,  I  will  venture  to  say,  because  more  uniformly 
'  so.  How  vain,  how  contemptible,  is  that  pride,  which  shows 
'  itself  in  standing  upon  diminutive  observances ;  and  gives 
'  up,  and  makes  a  jest  of,  the  most  important  duties ! 

'  This  article  being  considered  as  I  wish,  all  the  rest  will 
'  be  easy.  Were  I  to  accept  of  the  handsome  separate  pro- 
'■  vision  you  seem  to  intend  me ;  added  to  the  considerable 
'  sums  arisen  from  my  grandfather's  estate  since  his  death 
'  (more  considerable  than  perhaps  you  may  suppose  from 
'  your  offer) ;  I  should  think  it  my  duty  to  lay  up  for  the 
'  family  good,  and  for  unforeseen  events,  out  of  it ;  for,  as 
'  to  my  donations,  I  would  generally  confine  myself  in  them 

*  to  the  tenth  of  my  income,  be  it  what  it  would.  I  aim  at 
*no  glare  in  what  I  do  of  that  sort.  All  I  wish  for,  is  the 
'  power  of  relieving  the  lame,  the  blind,  the  sick,  and  the 
'  industrious  poor,  and  those  whom  accident  has  made  so, 
'  or  sudden  distress  reduced.  The  common  or  bred  beggars 
'  I  leave  to  others,  and  to  the  public  provision.  They  can- 
'  not  be  lower :  perhaps  they  wish  not  to  be  higher :  and, 
•'not  able  to  do  for  every  one,  I  aim  not  at  works  of 
'  supererogation.  Two  hundred  pounds  a  year  would  do  all 
'  I  wish  to  do  of  the  separate  sort :  for  all  above,  I  would 
'  content  myself  to  ask  you ;  except,  mistrusting  your  own 
'  economy,  you  would  give  up  to  my  management  and  keep- 

*  ing,  in  order  to  provide  for  future  contingencies,  a  larger 
'  portion ;   for  which,   as  your  steward,   I   would  regularly 

*  account. 

'  As  to  clothes,  I  have  particularly  two  suits,  which,  having 
'been  only  in  a  manner  tried  on,  would  answer  for  any 
'present  occasion.  Jewels  I  have  of  my  grandmother's 
'which  want  only  new-setting:  another  set  I  have,  which 
*on  particular  days  I  used  to  wear.  Although  these  are 
'  not  sent  me,  I  have  no  doubt,  being  merely  personals,  but 
'they  will,  when  I  send  for  them  in  another  name:  till  when 

*  I  should  not  choose  to  wear  any. 

'As  to  your  complaints  of  my  diffidences,  and  the  like, 


CLARISSA    UAELO^VE.  207 

*  I  appeal  to  your  own  heart,  if  it  be  possible  for  you  to  make 

*  my  case  your  own  for  one  moment,  and  to  retrospect  some 

*  parts  of  your  behaviour,  words,  and  actions,  whether  I  am 

*  not  rather  to  be  justified  than  censured :  and  whether,  of 
'  of  all  men  in  the  world,  avowing  what  you  avow,  you  ought 
'  not  to  think  so.     If  you  do  not,  let  me  admonish  you,  sir, 

*  from  the  very  great  mismatch  that  then  must  appear  to 
'  be  in  our  minds,  never  to  seek,  nor  so  much  as  wish,  to 
'bring  about  the  most  intimate  union  of  interests  between 
'yourself  and 

*  Claeissa  Haelowe. 

'May  20.' 

The  original  of  this  charming  paper,  as  Dorcas  tells  me, 
was  to.n  almost  in  two.  In  one  of  her  pets,  I  suppose ! 
What  business  have  the  sex,  whose  principal  glory  is  meek- 
ness, and  patience,  and  resignation,  to  be  in  a  passion,  I 
trow? — Will  not  she  who  allows  herself  such  liberties  as  a 
maiden,  take  greater  when  married? 

And  a  wife  to  be  in  a  passion! — Let  me  tell  the  ladies,  it 
is  an  impudent  thing,  begging  their  pardon,  and  as  impru- 
dent as  impudent,  for  a  wife  to  be  in  a  passion,  if  she  mean 
not  eternal  separation,  or  wicked  defiance,  by  it:  for  is  it 
not  rejecting  at  once  all  that  expostulatory  meekness,  and 
gentle  reasoning,  mingled  with  sighs  as  gentle,  and  graced 
with  bent  knees,  supplicating  hands,  and  eyes  lifted  up  to 
your  imperial  countenance,  just  running  over,  that  you 
should  make  a  reconciliation  speedy,  and  as  lasting  as  speedy  ? 
Even  suppose  the  husband  is  in  the  wrong,  will  not  this 
being  so  give  the  greater  force  to  her  expostulation? 

Now  I  think  of  it,  a  man  should  be  in  the  wrong  now  and 
then,  to  make  his  wife  shine.  Miss  Howe  tells  my  charmer 
that  adversity  is  her  shining-time.  'Tis  a  generous  thing 
in  a  man  to  make  his  wife  shine  at  his  own  expense :  to  give 
her  leave  to  triumph  over  him  by  patient  reasoning :  for  were 
he  to  be  too  imperial  to  acknowledge  his  fault  on  the  spot, 
she  will  find  the  benefit  of  her  duty  and  submission  in 
future,  and  in  the  high  opinion  he  will  conceive  of  her  pru- 


208  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

dence  and  obligingness — and  so,  by  degrees,  she  will  become 
her  master's  master. 

But  for  a  wife  to  come  up  with  kemboed  arm,  the  other 
hand  thrown  out,  perhaps  with  a  pointing  finger — Look 
ye  here,  sir ! — Take  notice ! — If  you  are  wrong,  Fll  be  wrong ! 
— If  you  are  in  a  passion,  Til  be  in  a  passion! — Eebuff,  for 
rebuff,  sir ! — If  you  fly,  I'll  tear ! — If  you  swear,  Fll  curse ! 
— And  the  same  room,  and  the  same  bed,  shall  not  hold  us, 
sir ! — For,  remember,  I  am  married,  sir ! — I  am  a  wife,  sir ! 
— You  can't  help  yourself,  sir ! — Your  honour,  as  well  as 
your  peace,  is  in  my  keeping !  And  if  you  like  not  this 
treatment,  you  may  have  worse,  sir ! 

Ah !  Jack !  Jack !  what  man,  who  has  observed  these 
things,  either  implied  or  expressedj  in  other  families,  would 
wish  to  be  a  husband! 

Dorcas  found  this  paper  in  one  of  the  drawers  of  her 
lady's  dressing-table.  She  was  reperusing  it,  as  she  supposes, 
Avhen  the  honest  wench  carried  my  message  to  desire  her  to 
favour  me  at  the  tea-table;  for  she  saw  her  pop  a  paper  into 
the  drawer  as  she  came  in;  and  there,  on  her  mistress's 
going  to  meet  me  in  the  dining-room,  she  found  it;  and 
to  be  this. 

But  I  had  better  not  to  have  had  a  copy  of  it,  as  far  as 
I  know :  for,  determined  as  I  was  before  upon  my  operations, 
it  instantly  turned  all  my  resolutions  in  her  favour.  Yet  I 
would  give  something  to  be  convinced  that  she  did  not  pop 
it  into  her  drawer  before  the  wench,  in  order  for  me  to  see 
it;  and  perhaps  (if  I  were  to  take  notice  of  it)  to  discover 
whether  Dorcas,  according  to  Miss  Howe's  advice,  were  most 
my  friend,  or  hers. 

The  very  suspicion  of  this  will  do  her  no  good:  for  I 
cannot  bear  to  be  artfully  dealt  with.  People  love  to  enjoy 
their  own  peculiar  talents  in  monopoly,  as  I  may  say.  I  am 
aware  that  it  will  strengthen  thy  arguments  against  me  in 
her  behalf.  But  I  know  every  tittle  thou  canst  say  upon  it. 
Spare  therefore  thy  wambling  nonsense,  I  desire  thee;  and 
leave  this  sweet  excellence  and  me  to  our  fate:  that  will 
determine  for  us,  as  it  shall  please  itself :  for  as  Cowley  says, 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  209 

An  unseen  hand  makes  all  our  moves : 
And  some  are  great,  and  some  are  small ; 

Some  climb  to  good,  some  from  good  fortune  fall : 
Some  wise  men,  and  some  fools  we  call: 

Figures,  alas!  of  speech! — For  destiny  plays  us  all. 

But,  after  all,  I  am  sorry,  almost  sorry  (for  how  shall  I 
do  to  be  quiie  sorry,  when  it  is  not  given  to  me  to  be  so?) 
that  I  cannot,  until  I  have  made  further  trials,  resolve  upon 
wedlock, 

I  have  just  read  over  again  this  intended  answer  to  my 
proposals :  and  how  I  adore  her  for  it ! 

But  yet;  another  yet! — She  has  not  given  it  or  sent  it 
to  me. — It  is  not  therefore  her  answer.  It  is  not  written 
for  me,  though  to  me. 

Nay,  she  has  not  intended  to  send  it  to  me :  she  has  even 
torn  it,  perhaps  with  indignation,  as  thinking  it  too  good 
for  me.  By  this  action  she  absolutely  retracts  it.  Why 
then  does  my  foolish  fondness  seek  to  establish  for  her  the 
same  merit  in  my  heart,  as  if  she  avowed  it?  Pr'ythee, 
dear  Belford,  once  more  leave  us  to  our  fate;  and  do  not 
thou  interpose  with  any  nonsense,  to  weaken  a  spirit  already 
too  squeamish,  and  strengthen  a  conscience  that  has  de- 
clared itself  of  her  party. 

Then  again,  remember  thy  recent  discoveries,  Lovelace ! 
Eemember  her  indifference,  attended  with  all  the  appearance 
of  contempt  and  hatred.  View  her,  even  now,  wrapt  up  in 
reserve  and  mystery ;  meditating  plots,  as  far  as  thou  knowest, 
against  the  sovereignty  thou  hast,  by  right  of  conquest,  ob- 
tained over  her.  Eemember,  in  short,  all  thou  hast  threatened 
to  remember  against  this  insolent  beauty,  who  is  a  rebel 
to  the  power  she  has  listed  under. 

But  yet,  how  dost  thou  propose  to  subdue  thy  sweet  enemy ! 
— Abhorred  be  force,  be  the  necessity  of  force,  if  that  can 
be  avoided !  There  is  no  triumph  in  force — no  conquest 
over  the  will — no  prevailing  by  gentle  degrees  over  the  gentle 
passions ! — force  is  the  devil ! 

My  cursed  character,  as  I  have  often  said,  was  against  me 
at  setting  out — yet  is  she  not  a  woman  f     Cannot  I  find 


210  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

one  yielding  or  but  half  yielding  moment,  if  she  do  not 
absolutely  hate  me? 

But  with  what  can  I  tempt  her? — Eiches  she  was  born 
to,  and  despises,  knowing  what  they  are.  Jewels  and  orna- 
ments, to  a  mind  so  much  a  jewel,  and  so  richly  set,  her 
worthy  consciousness  will  not  let  her  value.  Love — if  she 
be  susceptible  of  love,  it  seems  to  be  so  much  under  the 
direction  of  prudence,  that  one  unguarded  moment,  I  fear, 
cannot  be  reasonably  hoped  for:  and  so  much  vigilance, 
so  much  apprehensiveness,  that  her  fears  are  ever  aforehand 
with  her  dangers.  Then  her  love  of  virtue  seems  to  be 
principle,  native  principle,  or,  if  not  native,  so  deeply  rooted, 
that  its  fibres  have  struck  into  her  heart,  and  as  she  grew 
up,  so  blended  and  twisted  themselves  with  the  strings  of 
life,  that  I  doubt  there  is  no  separating  of  the  one  without 
cutting  the  others  asunder. 

What  then  can  be  done  to  make  such  a  matchless  creature 
get  over  the  first  tests,  in  order  to  put  her  to  the  grand 
proof,  whether  otice  overcome,  she  will  not  he  always  over- 
come? 

Our  mother  and  her  nymphs  say,  I  am  a  perfect  Craven, 
and  no  Lovelace:  and  so  I  think.  But  this  is  no  simpering, 
smiling  charmer,  as  I  have  found  others  to  be,  when  I  have 
touched  upon  affecting  subjects  at  a  distance;  as  once  or 
twice  I  have  tried  to  her,  the  mother  introducing  them  (to 
make  sex  palliate  the  freedom  to  sex)  when  only  we  three 
together.  She  is  above  the  affectation  of  not  seeming  to 
understand  you.  She  shows  by  her  displeasure,  and  a  fierce- 
ness not  natural  to  her  eye,  that  she  judges  of  an  impure 
heart  by  an  impure  mouth,  and  darts  dead  at  once  even  the 
embryo  hopes  of  an  encroaching  lover,  however  distantly 
insinuated,  'before  the  meaning  hint  can  dawn  into  double 
entendre. 

By  my  faith,  Jack,  as  I  sit  gazing  upon  her,  my  whole 
soul  in  my  eyes,  contemplating  her  perfections,  and  thinking, 
when  I  have  seen  her  easy  and  serene,  what  would  be  her 
thoughts  did  she  know  my  heart  as  well  as  I  know  it;  when 
I  behold  her  disturbed  and  jealous,  and  think  of  the  justness 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  211 

of  her  apprehensions,  and  that  she  cannot  fear  so  much  as 
there  is  room  for  her  to  fear;  my  heart  often  mis- 
gives me. 

And  must,  think  I,  oh,  creature  so  divinely  excellent,  and 
so  beloved  of  my  soul,  those  arms,  those  encircling  arms, 
that  would  make  a  monarch  happy,  be  used  to  repel  brutal 
force;  all  their  strength,  unavailingly  perhaps,  exerted  to 
repel  it,  and  to  defend  a  person  so  delicately  framed?  Can 
violence  enter  into  the  heart  of  a  wretch,  who  might  entitle 
himself  to  all  her  willing  yet  virtuous  love,  and  make  the 
blessings  he  aspireth  after,  her  duty  to  confer? — Begone, 
villain  purposes !  Sink  ye  all  to  the  hell  that  could  only 
inspire  ye!  And  I  am  then  ready  to  throw  myself  at  her 
feet,  to  confess  my  villainous  designs,  to  avow  my  repentance, 
and  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  act  unworthily  by  such  an 
excellence. 

How  then  comes  it,  that  all  these  compassionate,  and  as 
some  would  call  them,  honest  sensibilities  go  off ! — Why, 
Miss  Howe  will  tell  thee :  she  says,  I  am  the  devil. — By  my 
conscience,  I  think  he  has  at  present  a  great  share 
in  me. 

There's  ingenuousness ! — How  I  lay  myself  open  to  thee ! 
— But  seest  thou  not,  that  the  more  I  say  against  myself, 
the  less  room  there  is  for  thee  to  take  me  to  task? — 0  Bel- 
ford,  Belford!  I  cannot,  cannot  (at  least  at  present)  I  can- 
not ma^r5^ 

Then  her  family,  my  bitter  enemies — ^to  supple  to  them, 
or  M  I  do  not,  to  make  her  as  unhappy  as  she  can  be  from 
my  attempts 

Then  does  she  not  love  them  too  much,  me  too  little? 

She  now  seems  to  despise  me:  Miss  Howe  declares  that 
she  really  does  despise  me.  To  be  despised  hy  a  wife — 
What  a  thought  is  that ! — To  be  excelled  hy  a  wife  too,  in 
every  part  of  praiseworthy  knowledge ! — To  talce  lessons,  to 
talce  instructions,  from  a  wife  ! — More  than  despise  me.  she 
herself  has  taken  time  to  consider  whether  she  does  not  hate 
me : — I  hate  you,  Lovelace,  with  my  whole  heart,  said  she 
to  me  but  yesterday!  My  soul  is  above  thee,  man! — Urge 
Vol.  IV— 16. 


212  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

me  not  to  tell  thee  how  sincerely  I  think  my  soul  above  thee! 
■ — How  poor  indeed  was  I  then,  even  in  my  own  heart ! — So 
visible  a  superiority,  to  so  proud  a  spirit  as  mine! — And 
here  from  below,  from  below  indeed!  from  these  women! 

I  am  so  goaded  on 

^,  Yet  'tis  poor  too,  to  think  myself  a  machine  in  the  hands 
of  such  wretches. — I  am  no  machine. — Lovelace,  thou  art 
base  to  thyself,  but  to  suppose  thyself  a  machine. 

But  having  gone  thus  far,  I  should  be  unhappy,  if  after 
marriage,  in  the  petulance  of  ill-humour,  I  had  it  to  reproach 
myself  that  I  did  not  try  her  to  the  utmost.  And  yet  I 
don't  know  how  it  is,  but  this  lady,  the  moment  I  come  into 
her  presence,  half  assimilates  me  to  her  own  virtue. — Once 
or  twice  (to  say  nothing  of  her  triumph  over  me  on  Sunday 
night)  I  was  prevailed  upon  to  fluster  myself,  with  an  in- 
tention to  make  some  advances,  which,  if  obliged  to  recede, 
I  might  lay  upon  raised  spirits :  but  the  instant  I  beheld 
her,  1  was  soberised  into  awe  and  reverence :  and  the  majesty 
of  her  even  visible  purity  first  damped,  and  then  extinguished 
my  double  flame. 

What  a  surprisingly  powerful  effect,  so  much  and  so  long 
in  my  power  she!  so  instigated  by  some  of  her  own  sex,  and 
so  stimulated  by  passion  I! — How  can  this  be  accounted  for 
in  a  Lovelace ! 

But  what  a  heap  of  stuff  have  I  written! — How  have  I 
been  run  away  with! — By  what? — Canst  thou  say  by  what? 
— Oh,  thou  lurking  varletess  conscience  ! — Is  it  thou  that 
hast  thus  made  me  of  party  against  myself? — How  earnest 
thou  in? — In  what  disguise,  thou  egregious  haunter  of  my 
more  agreeable  hours? — Stand  thou,  with  fate,  but  neuter  in 
this  controversy;  and  if  I  cannot  do  credit  to  human  nature, 
and  to  the  female  sex,  by  bringing  down  such  an  angel  as 
this  to  class  with  and  adorn  it  (for  adorn  it  she  does  in  her 
very  foibles),  then  I  am  all  yours,  and  never  will  resist  you 
more. 

Here  I  arose.  I  shook  myself.  The  window  was  open. 
Away  the  troublesome  bosom  visitor,  the  intruder,  is  flown. 
— I  see  it  yet! — I  see  it  yet! — And  now  it  lessens  to  my 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  213 

aching  eye ! — And  now  the  cleft  air  is  closed  after  it,  and  it 
is  out  of  sight ! — and  once  more  I  am 

Egbert  Lovelace. 


LETTER  XLII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  May  23. 

Well  did  I,  and  but  just  in  time  conclude  to  have  done 
with  Mis.  Fretchviile  and  the  house:  for  here  Mennell  has 
declared  that  he  cannot  in  conscience  and  honour  go  any 
further. — He  would  not  for  the  world  be  accessory  to  the 
deceiving  of  such  a  lady ! — I  was  a  fool  to  let  either  you  or 
him  see  her;  for  ever  since  ye  have  both  had  scruples,  which 
neither  would  have  had,  were  a  woman  to  have  been  in  the 
question. 

Well,  I  can't  help  it ! 

Mennell  has,  however,  though  with  some  reluctance,  con- 
sented to  write  me  a  letter,  provided  I  will  allow  it  to  be 
the  last  step  he  shall  take  in  this  affair. 

I  presumed,  I  told  him,  that  if  I  could  cause  Mrs.  Fretch- 
ville's  woman  to  supply  his  place,  he  would  have  no  objection 
to  that. 

None,  he  says — But  is  it  not  pity 

A  pitiful  fellow !  Such  a  ridiculous  kind  of  pity  his,  as 
those  silly  souls  have,  who  would  not  kill  an  innocent  chicken 
for  the  world ;  but  when  killed  to  their  hands,  are  always  the 
most  greedy  devourers  of  it. 

Now  this  letter  gives  the  servant  the  small-pox:  and  she 
has  given  it  to  her  unhappy  vapourish  lady.  Vapourish 
people  are  perpetual  subjects  for  diseases  to  work  upon. 
Name  but  the  malady,  and  it  is  theirs  in  a  moment.  Ever 
fitted  for  inoculation. — The  physical  tribe's  milch-cows. — A 
vapourish  or  splenetic  patient  is  a  fiddle  for  the  doctors ;  and 
they  are  eternally  playing  upon  it.    Sweet  music  does  it  make 


214  THE   HISTORY    OF 

them.  All  their  difficulty,  except  a  case  extraordinary  hap- 
pens (as  poor  Mrs.  Fretchville's,  who  has  realised  her  appre- 
hensions), is  but  to  hold  their  countenance,  while  their 
patient  is  drawing  up  a  bill  of  indictment  against  himself ; — 
and  when  they  have  heard  it,  proceed  to  punish — the  right 
word  for  prescribe.  Why  should  they  not,  when  the  criminal 
has  confessed  his  guilt  ? — And  punish  they  generally  do  with 
a  vengeance. 

Yet,  silly  toads  too,  now  I  think  of  it.  For  why,  when 
they  know  they  cannot  do  good,  may  they  not  as  well  en- 
deavour to  gratify,  as  to  nauseate,  the  patient's  palate? 

Were  I  a  physician,  I'd  get  all  the  trade  to  myself:  for 
Malmsey,  and  Cyprus,  and  the  generous  product  of  the 
Cape,  a  little  disguised,  should  be  my  principal  doses :  as 
these  would  create  new  spirits,  how  would  the  revived  patient 
covet  the  physic,  and  adore  the  doctor ! 

Give  all  the  paraders  of  the  faculty  whom  thou  knowest 
this  hint. — There  could  but  one  inconvenience  arise  from  it. 
The  APOTHECARIES  would  find  their  medicines  cost  them 
something :  but  the  demand  for  quantities  would  answer  that : 
since  the  honest  nurse  would  be  the  patient's  taster;  per- 
petually requiring  repetitions  of  the  last  cordial  julap. 

Well,  but  to  the  letter — yet  what  need  of  further  explana- 
tion after  the  hints  in  my  former?  The  widow  can't  be  re- 
moved; and  that's  enough:  and  Mennell's  work  is  over;  and 
his  conscience  left  to  plague  him  for  his  own  sins,  and  not 
another  man's :  and  very  possibly  plague  enough  will  give 
him  for  those. 

This  letter  is  directed.  To  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq.,  or,  in  his 
absence,  to  his  lady.  She  had  refused  dining  with  me.  or 
seeing  me:  and  I  was  out  when  it  came.  She  opened  it:  so 
is  my  lady  by  her  own  consent,  proud  and  saucy  as  she  is. 

I  am  glad  at  my  heart  that  it  came  before  we  entirely  make 
up.  She  would  else  perhaps  have  concluded  it  to  be  contrived 
for  a  delay:  and  now,  moreover,  we  can  accommodate  our 
old  and  new  quarrels  together;  and  that's  contrivance,  you 
know.  But  how  is  her  dear  haughty  heart  humbled  to  what 
it  was  when  I  knew  her  first,  that  she  can  apprehend  any 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  215 

delays  from  me;  and  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  vex  at 
them! 

I  came  in  to  dinner.  She  sent  me  down  the  letter,  desir- 
ing my  excuse  for  opening  it. — Did  it  before  she  was  aware. 
Lady  pride,   Belford! — recollection,  then  retrogradation ! 

I  requested  to  see  her  upon  it  that  moment. — But  she  de- 
sires to  suspend  our  interview  till  morning.  I  will  bring 
her  to  own,  before  I  have  done  with  her,  that  she  can't  see 
me  too  often. 

My  impatience  was  so  great,  on  an  occasion  so  unexpected, 
that  I  could  not  help  writing  to  tell  her,  '  how  much  vexed 
'  I  was  pt  the  accident :  but  that  it  need  not  delay  my  happy 
'  day,  as  that  did  not  depend  upon  the  house.  [She  knew 
'  that  before,  she'll  think;  and  so  did  /.]  And  as  Mrs.  Fretch- 
'  ville,  by  Mr.  Mennell,  so  handsomely  expressed  her  concern 
'  upon  it,  and  her  wishes  that  it  could  suit  us  to  bear  with 
'  the  unavoidable  delay,  I  hojied  that  going  down  to  The 

*  Lawn  for  two  or  three  of  the  summer  months,  when  I  was 

*  made  the  happiest  of  men,  would  be  favourable  to  all  round.' 

The  dear  creature  takes  this  incident  to  heart,  I  believe: 
She  has  sent  word  to  my  repeated  request  to  see  her  notwith- 
standing her  denial,  that  she  cannot  till  the  morning:  it 
shall  be  then  at  six  o'clock,  if  I  please ! 

To  be  sure  I  do  please ! 

Can  see  her  but  once  a  day  now,  Jack ! 

Did  I  tell  thee  that  I  wrote  a  letter  to  my  cousin  Montague, 
wondering  that  I  heard  not  from  Lord  M.  as  the  subject  was 
so  very  interesting!  In  it  I  acquainted  her  with  the  house 
I  was  about  taking;  and  with  Mrs.  Fretchville's  vapourish 
delays. 

I  was  very  loth  to  engage  my  own  family,  either  man  or 
woman,  in  this  affair;  but  I  must  take  my  measures  securely: 
and  already  they  all  think  as  bad  of  me  as  they  well  can. 
You  observe  by  my  Lord  M.'s  letter  to  yourself,  that  the  well- 
mannered  peer  is  afraid  I  should  play  this  admirable  crea- 
ture one  of  my  usual  dog's  tricks. 

T  have  received  just  now  an  answer  from  Charlotte. 

Chariot  i'n't  well.    A  stomach  disorder! 


216  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

No  wonder  a  girl's  stomach  should  plague  her.  A  single 
woman;  that's  it.  When  she  has  a  man  to  plague,  it  will 
have  something  besides  itself  to  prey  upon.  Knowest  thou 
not,  moreover,  that  man  is  the  woman's  sun;  woman  is  the 
man's  earth?— -How  dreary,  how  desolate,  the  earth,  that  the 
sun  shines  not  upon! 

Poor  Charlotte !  But  I  heard  she  was  not  well :  that  en- 
couraged me  to  write  to  her;  and  to  express  myself  a  little 
concerned  that  she  had  not,  of  her  own  accord,  thought  of  a 
visit  in  town  to  my  charmer. 

Here  follows  a  copy  of  her  letter.  Thou  wilt  see  by  it  that 
every  little  monkey  is  to  catechise  me.  They  all  depend  upon 
my  good-nature. 


M.  Haix,  May  22. 

Dear  Cousin^ — We  have  been  in  daily  hope  for  a  long 
time,  I  must  call  it,  of  hearing  that  the  happy  knot  was  tied. 
My  lord  has  been  very  much  out  of  order:  and  yet  nothing 
would  serve  him,  but  he  would  himself  write  an  answer  to 
your  letter.  It  was  the  only  opportunity  he  should  ever  have 
perhaps,  to  throw  in  a  little  good  advice  to  you,  with  the 
hope  of  its  being  of  any  signification;  and  he  has  been  sev- 
eral hours  in  a  day,  as  his  gout  would  let  him,  busied  in  it. 
It  wants  now  only  his  last  revisal.  He  hopes  it  will  have  the 
greater  weight  with  you,  if  it  appear  all  in  his  own  hand- 
writing. 

Indeed,  Mr.  Lovelace,  his  worthy  heart  is  wrapt  up  in  you. 
I  wish  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well.  But  I  believe 
too,  that  if  all  the  family  loved  you  less,  you  would  love  your- 
self more. 

His  lordship  has  been  very  busy,  at  the  times  he  could  not 
write,  in  consulting  Pritchard  about  those  estates  which  he 
proposes  to  transfer  to  you  on  the  happy  occasion,  that  he 
may  answer  your  letter  in  the  most  acceptable  manner;  and 
show,  by  effects,  how  kindly  he  takes  your  invitation.  I  as- 
sure you  he  is  mighty  proud  of  it. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  217 

As  for  myself,  I  am  not  at  all  well,  and  have  not  been  for 
some  weeks  past,  with  my  old  stomach-disorder.  I  had  cer- 
tainly else  before  now  have  done  myself  the  honour  you  won- 
der 1  have  not  done  myself.  Lady  Betty,  who  would  have 
accompanied  me  (for  we  had  laid  it  all  out),  has  been  ex- 
ceedingly busy  in  her  law  affair;  her  antagonist,  who  is  ac- 
tually on  the  spot,  having  been  making  proposals  for  an  ac- 
commodation. But  you  may  assure  yourself,  that  when  our 
dear  relation-elect  shall  be  entered  upon  the  new  habitation 
you  tell  me  of,  we  will  do  ourselves  the  honour  of  visiting 
her;  and  if  any  delay  arises  from  the  dear  lady's  want  of 
courage  (which  considering  her  man,  let  me  tell  you,  may 
very  well  be),  we  will  endeavour  to  inspire  her  with  it,  and  be 
sponsors  for  you; — for,  cousin,  I  believe  you  have  need  to  be 
christened  over  again  before  you  are  entitled  to  so  great  a 
blessing.    What  think  you? 

Just  now  my  lord  tells  me,  he  will  despatch  a  man  on  pur- 
pose with  his  letter  to-morrow :  so  I  needed  not  to  have  vrrit- 
ten.  But  now  I  have,  let  it  go ;  and  by  Empson,  who  sets  out 
directly  on  his  return  to  town. 

My  best  compliments,  and  sister's,  to  the  most  deserving 
lady  in  the  world  [you  will  need  no  other  direction  to  the  per- 
son meant]  conclude  me 

Your  affectionate  cousin  and  servant, 

Chael.  Montague. 

Thou  seest  how  seasonably  this  letter  comes.  I  hope  my 
lord  will  write  nothing  but  what  I  may  show  to  my  beloved. 
I  have  actually  sent  her  up  this  letter  of  Charlotte's,  and  hope 
for  happy  effects  from  it.  E.  L. 

[The  lady,  in  her  next  letter,  gives  Miss  Howe  an  account  of 
what  has  passed  between  Mr.  Lovelace  and  herself.  She 
resents  his  behaviour  with  her  usual  dignity.  But  when 
she  comes  to  mention  Mr.  Mennell's  letter,  she  re-urges 
Miss  Howe  to  perfect  her  scheme  for  her  deliverance;  be- 
ing resolved  to  leave  him.    But,  dating  again,  on  his  send- 


218  THE   HISTORY    OF 

ing  up  to  her  Miss  Montague's  letter,  she  alters  her  mind, 
and  desires  her  to  suspend  for  the  present  her  application 
to  Mrs.  Townsend.] 

I  had  begun,  says  she,  to  suspect  all  he  had  said  of  Mrs. 
Fretchville  and  her  house;  and  even  Mr.  Mennell  himself, 
though  so  well-appearing  a  man.  But  now  that  I  find  Mr. 
Lovelace  has  apprised  his  relations  of  his  intention  to  take 
it,  and  had  engaged  some  of  the  ladies  to  visit  me  there,  I 
could  hardly  forbear  blaming  myself  for  censuring  him  as 
capable  of  so  vile  an  imposture.  But  may  he  not  thank  him- 
self for  acting  so  very  unaccountably,  and  taking  such  need- 
lessly awry  steps,  as  he  has  done,  embarrassing,  as  I  told  him, 
his  own  meanings,  if  they  were  good? 


LETTER  XLIIL 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Wednesday,  May  24. 

[He  gives  his  friend  an  account  of  their  interview  that  morn- 
ing; and  of  the  happy  effects  of  his  cousin  Montague's 
letter  in  his  favour.  Her  reserves,  however,  he  tells  him, 
are  not  absolutely  banished.    But  this  he  imputes  to  form.] 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  woman,  says  he,  to  be  altogether 
sincere  on  these  occasions.  But  why? — Do  they  think  it  so 
great  a  disgrace  to  be  found  out  to  be  really  what  they  are  ? 

I  regretted  the  illness  of  Mrs.  Fretchville ;  as  the  intention 
I  had  to  fix  her  dear  self  in  the  house  before  the  happy  knot 
was  tied,  would  have  set  her  in  that  independence  in  appear- 
ance,  as  well  as  fact,  which  was  necessary  to  show  to  all  the 
world  that  her  choice  was  free;  and  as  the  ladies  of  my  fam- 
ily would  have  been  proud  to  make  their  court  to  her  there, 
while  the  settlements  and  our  equipages  were  preparing.  But 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  219 

on  any  other  account,  there  was  no  great  matter  in  it;  since 
when  my  happy  day  was  over,  we  could,  with  so  much  con- 
venience, go  down  to  The  Lawn,  to  my  Lord  M.'s,  and  to 
Lady  Sarah's  or  Lady  Betty's,  in  turn;  which  would  give 
full  time  to  provide  ourselves  with  servants  and  other  ac- 
commodations. 

How  sweetly  the  charmer  listened ! 
I  asked  her  if  she  had  had  the  small-pox? 
Ten  thousand  pounds  the  worse  in  my  estimation,  thought 
I,  if  she  has  not;  for  not  one  of  her  charming  graces  can  I 
dispense  with. 

'Twas  always  a  doubtful  point  with  her  mother  and  Mrs. 
Norton,  she  owned.  But  although  she  was  not  afraid  of  it, 
she  chose  not  unnecessarily  to  rush  into  places  where  it  was. 
Right,  thought  I — Else,  I  said,  it  would  not  have  been 
amiss  for  her  to  see  the  house  before  she  went  into  the  coun- 
try; for  if  she  liked  it  not,  I  was  not  obliged  to  have  it. 

She  asked  if  she  might  take  a  copy  of  Miss  Montague's 
letter? 

I  said  she  might  keep  the  letter  itself,  and  send  it  to  Miss 
Howe,  if  she  pleased;  for  that,  I  suppose,  was  her  intention. 
She  bowed  her  head  to  me. 

There,  Jack !  I  shall  have  her  courtesy  to  me  by  and  by, 
I  question  not.  What  a-devil  had  I  to  do,  to  terrify  the  sweet 
creature  by  my  termagant  projects ! — Yet  it  was  not  amiss, 
I  believe,  to  make  her  afraid  of  me.  She  says,  I  am  an  un- 
polite  man.  And  every  polite  instance  from  such  a  one  is 
deemed  a  favour. 

Talking  of  the  settlements,  I  told  her  I  had  rather  that 
Pritchard  (mentioned  by  my  cousin  Charlotte)  had  not  been 
consulted  on  this  occasion.  Pritchard,  indeed,  was  a  very 
honest  man;  and  had  been  for  a  generation  in  the  family; 
and  knew  the  estates,  and  the  condition  of  them,  better  than 
either  my  Lord  or  myself :  but  Pritchard,  like  other  old  men, 
was  diffident  and  slow;  and  valued  himself  upon  his  skill 
as  a  draughtsman;  and  for  the  sake  of  that  paltry  reputa- 
tion, must  have  all  his  forms  preserved,  were  an  imperial 
crown  to  depend  upon  his  despatch. 


220  THE   HISTORY    OF 

I  kissed  her  unrepulsing  hand  no  less  than  five  times  dur- 
ing this  conversation.  Lord,  Jack,  how  my  generous  heart 
ran  over! — She  was  quite  obliging  at  parting. — She  in  a 
manner  asked  me  leave  to  retire;  to  reperuse  Charlotte's  let- 
ter.— I  think  she  bent  her  knees  to  me ;  but  I  won't  be  sure. — 
How  happy  might  we  have  both  been  long  ago,  had  the  dear 
creature  been  always  as  complaisant  to  me !  For  I  do  love 
respect,  and,  whether  I  deserve  it  or  not,  always  had  it,  till 
I  knew  this  proud  beauty. 

And  now,  Belford,  are  we  in  a  train,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it. 
Every  fortified  town  has  its  strong  and  its  weak  place.  I  had 
carried  on  my  attacks  against  the  impregnable  parts.  I  have 
no  doubt  but  I  shall  either  shine  or  smuggle  her  out  of  her 
cloke,  since  she  and  Miss  Howe  have  intended  to  employ  a 
smuggler  against  me. — All  we  wait  for  now  is  my  Lord's 
letter. 

But  I  had  like  to  have  forgot  to  tell  thee,  that  we  have  been 
not  a  little  alarmed,  by  some  inquiries  that  have  been  made 
after  me  and  my  beloved  by  a  man  of  good  appearance;  who 
yesterday  procured  a  tradesman  in  the  neighbourhood  to  send 
for  Dorcas:  of  whom  he  asked  several  questions  relating  to 
us;  particularly  (as  we  boarded  and  lodged  in  one  house) 
whether  we  were  married? 

This  has  given  my  beloved  great  uneasiness.  And  I  could 
not  help  observing  upon  it,  to  her,  how  right  a  thing  it  was 
that  we  had  given  out  below  that  we  were  married.  The  in- 
quiry, most  probably,  I  said,  was  from  her  brother's  quarter ; 
and  now  perhaps  that  our  marriage  was  owned,  we  should 
hear  no  more  of  his  machinations.  The  person,  it  seems,  was 
curious  to  know  the  day  that  the  ceremony  was  performed. 
But  Dorcas  refused  to  give  him  any  other  particulars  than 
that  we  were  married ;  and  she  was  the  more  reserved,  as  he  de- 
clined to  tell  her  the  motives  of  his  inquiry. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  221 

LETTER  XLIV. 

Mr.  Lovelace  io  John  Beljord,  Esq. 

May  24. 

The  devil  take  this  uncle  of  mine !  He  has  at  last  sent  me 
a  letter  wb:ch  1  cannot  show^  without  exposing  the  head  of 
our  family  for  a  fool.  A  confounded  parcel  of  pop-guns  has 
he  let  off  upon  me.  I  was  in  hopes  he  had  exliausted  his 
whole  stock  of  this  sort  in  his  letter  to  you. — To  keep  it  back, 
to  delay  sending  it,  till  he  had  recollected  all  this  farrago  of 
nonsense — confound  his  wisdom  of  natiotis^  if  so  much  of 
it  is  to  be  scraped  together,  in  disgrace  of  itself,  to  make  one 
egregious  simpleton ! — But  I  am  glad  I  am  fortified  with 
this  piece  of  flagrant  folly,  however;  since,  in  all  human 
affairs,  the  convenient  and  inconvenient,  the  good  and  the 
bad,  are  so  mingled,  that  there  is  no  having  the  one  without 
the  other. 

I  have  already  offered  the  bill  enclosed  in  it  to  my  be- 
loved; and  read  to  her  part  of  the  letter.  But  she  refused 
the  bill:  and  as  I  am  in  cash  myself,  I  shall  return  it.  She 
seemed  very  desirous  to  peruse  the  whole  letter.  And  when 
I  told  her  that,  were  it  not  for  exposing  the  writer,  I  would 
oblige  her,  she  said,  it  would  not  be  exposing  his  Lordship 
to  show  it  to  her;  and  that  she  always  preferred  the  heart 
to  the  head.  I  knew  her  meaning;  but  did  not  thank  her 
for  it. 

All  that  makes  for  me  in  it  I  will  transcribe  for  her — 
yet  hang  it,  she  shall  have  the  letter,  and  my  soul  with  it, 
for  one  consenting  kiss. 

She  has  got  the  letter  from  me  without  the  reward.  Deuce 
take  me,  if  I  had  the  courage  to  propose  the  condition.  A 
new  character  this  of  bashfulness  in  thy  friend.  I  see  that 
a  truly  modest  woman  may  mahe  even  a  confident  man  Jceep 
his  distance.  By  my  soul,  Belford,  I  believe  that  nine  women 
in  ten,  who  fall,  fall  either  from  their  own  vanity  or  levity, 
or  for  want  of  circumspection  and  proper  reserves. 


222  THE   HISTORY    OF 

I  DID  intend  to  take  my  reward  on  her  returning  a  letter 
so  favourable  to  us  both.  But  she  sent  it  to  me,  sealed  up, 
by  Dorcas.  I  might  have  thought  that  there  were  two  or 
three  hints  in  it,  that  she  would  be  too  nice  immediately  to 
appear  to.  I  send  it  to  thee ;  and  here  will  stop,  to  give  thee 
time  to  read  it.     Return  it  as  soon  as  thou  hast  perused  it. 


LETTER  XLV. 

Lord  M.  to  Roiert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  May  23. 

It  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning. — Do  not  despise  me 
for  my  proverbs — you  know  I  was  always  fond  of  them;  and 
if  you  had  been  so  too,  it  would  have  been  the  better  for  you, 
let  me  tell  you.  I  dare  swear,  the  fine  lady  you  are  so  likely 
to  be  soon  happy  with,  will  be  far  from  despising  them;  for 
I  am  told  that  she  writes  well,  and  that  all  her  letters  are 
full  of  sentences.  God  convert  you !  for  nobody  but  He  and 
this  lady  can. 

I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  but  that  you  will  marry,  as 
your  father  and  all  your  ancestors  did  before  you:  else  you 
would  have  had  no  title  to  be  my  heir;  nor  can  your  descend- 
ants have  any  title  to  be  yours,  unless  they  are  legitimate; 
that's  worth  your  remembrance,  sir! — No  man  is  always  a 
fool,  every  man  is  sometimes. — But  your  follies,  I  hope,  are 
now  at  an  end. 

I  know  you  have  vowed  revenge  against  this  fine  lady's 
family :  but  no  more  of  that  now.  You  must  look  upon  them 
all  as  your  relations;  and  forgive  and  forget.  And  when 
they  see  you  make  a  good  husband  and  a  good  father  [which 
God  send,  for  all  our  sakes!],  they  will  wonder  at  their  non- 
sensical antipathy,  and  beg  your  pardon:  but  while  they 
think  you  a  vile  fellow,  and  a  rake,  how  can  they  either  love 
you,  or  excuse  their  daughter? 


CLARISSA    UABLOWE.  233 

And  methinlvs  I  could  wish  to  give  a  word  of  comfort  to 
the  lady,  who,  doubtless,  must  be  under  great  fears,  how  she 
shall  be  able  to  hold  in  such  a  wild  creature  as  you  have  hith- 
erto been.  I  would  hint  to  her,  that  by  strong  arguments, 
and  gentle  words,  she  may  do  anything  with  you;  for  though 
you  are  apt  to  be  hot,  gentle  words  will  cool  you,  and  bring 
you  into  the  temper  that  is  necessary  for  your  cure. 

Would  to  God,  my  poor  lady,  your  aunt,  who  is  dead  and 
gone,  had  been  a  proper  patient  for  the  same  remedy !  God 
rest  her  soul !  No  reflections  upon  her  memory !  Worth  is 
best  known  by  want!  I  know  liers  now;  and  if  I  had  went 
first,  she  would  by  this  time  have  known  mine. 

There  is  great  wisdom  in  that  saying,  God  send  me  a 
friend,  that  may  tell  me  of  my  faults:  if  not,  an  enemy,  and 
he  will.  Not  that  I  am  your  enemy ;  and  that  you  well  know. 
The  more  noble  any  one  is,  the  more  humble:  so  bear  with 
me,  if  you  would  be  thought  noble. — Am  I  not  your  uncle? 
and  I  do  not  design  to  be  better  to  vou  than  your  father 
could  be?  Nay,  I  will  be  your  father  too,  when  the  happy 
day  comes ;  since  you  desire  it :  and  pray  make  my  compli- 
ments to  my  dear  niece;  and  tell  her  I  wonder  much  that 
she  has  so  long  deferred  your  happiness. 

Pray  let  her  know  as  that  I  will  present  her  (not  ?/ow) 
either  my  Lancashire  seat  or  The  Lawn  in  Hertfordshire, 
and  settle  upon  her  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  penny-rents; 
to  show  her  that  we  are  not  a  family  to  take  base  advantages : 
and  you  may  have  writings  drawn,  and  settle  as  you  will. — 
Honest  Pritchard  has  the  rent-roll  of  both  these  estates ;  and 
as  he  has  been  a.  good  old  servant,  I  recommend  him  to  your 
lady's  favour.  I  have  already  consulted  him :  he  will  tell  5^ou 
what  is  best  for  you.  and  most  pleasing  to  me. 

I  am  still  very  bad  with  my  gout,  but  will  come  in  a  litter, 
as  soon  as  the  day  is  fixed ;  it  would  be  the  joy  of  my  heart 
to  join  your  hands.  And  let  me  tell  you,  if  you  do  not  make 
the  best  of  husbands  to  so  good  a  young  lady,  and  one  who 
has  had  so  much  courage  for  your  sake.  I  will  renounce  you ; 
and  settle  all  I  can  upon  her  and  hers  by  you,  and  leave  you 
out  of  the  question. 


224  THE   HISTORY    OF 

If  anything  be  wanting  for  your  further  security,  I  am 
ready  to  give  it;  though  you  know  that  my  word  has  always 
been  looked  upon  as  my  bond.  And  when  the  Harlowes 
know  all  this,  let  us  see  whether  they  are  able  to  blush,  and 
take  shame  to  themselves. 

Lady  Sarah  and  Lady  Betty  want  only  to  know  the  day, 
to  make  all  the  country  round  them  blaze,  and  all  their  ten- 
ants mad.  And  if  any  one  of  mine  be  sober  upon  the  occa- 
sion, Pritchard  shall  eject  him.  And  on  the  birth  of  the 
first  child,  if  a  son,  I  will  do  something  more  for  you,  and 
repeat  all  our  rejoicings. 

I  ought  indeed  to  have  written  sooner.  But  I  knew  that 
if  you  thought  me  long,  and  were  in  haste  as  to  your  nuptials, 
you  would  write  and  tell  me  so.  But  my  gout  was  very 
trouljlesome :  and  I  am  but  a  slow  writer,  you  know,  at  best : 
for  composing  is  a  thing  that,  though  formerly  I  was  very 
ready  at  (as  My  Lord  Lexington  used  to  say),  yet  having  left 
it  off  a  great  while,  I  am  not  so  now.  And  I  choose,  on  this 
occasion,  to  write  all  out  of  my  own  head  and  memory;  and 
to  give  you  my  best  advice;  for  I  may  never  have  such  an 
opportunity  again.  You  have  had  [God  mend  you !]  a 
strange  way  of  turning  your  back  upon  all  I  have  said :  this 
once,  I  hope,  you  will  be  more  attentive  to  the  advice  I  give 
you  for  your  own  good. 

I  have  still  another  end ;  nay,  two  other  ends. 

The  one  was,  that  now  you  are  upon  the  borders  of  wed- 
lock, as  I  may  say,  and  all  your  wild  oats  will  he  sown,  I 
would  give  you  some  instructions  as  to  your  public  as  well  as 
private  behaviour  in  life ;  which,  intending  you  so  much  good 
as  I  do,  you  ought  to  hear;  and  perhaps  would  never  have 
listened  to,  on  any  less  extraordinary  occasion. 

The  second  is,  that  your  dear  lady-elect  (who  is  it  seems 
herself  so  fine  and  so  sententious  a  writer)  will  see  by  this, 
that  it  is  not  our  faults,  nor  for  want  of  the  best  advice,  that 
you  was  not  a  better  man  than  you  have  hitherto  been. 

And  now,  in  few  words,  for  the  conduct  I  would  wish  you 
to  follow  in  public,  as  well  as  in  private,  if  you  would  think 
me  worthy  of  advising. — It  shall  be  short;  so  be  not  uneasy. 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  225 

As  to  the  private  life :  Love  your  lady  as  she  deserves.  Let 
your  actions  praise  you.  Be  a  good  husband;  and  so  give  the 
lie  to  all  your  enemies;  and  make  them  ashamed  of  their 
scandals.  And  let  us  have  pride  in  saying,  that  Miss  Har- 
lowe  has  not  done  either  herself  or  family  any  discredit  by 
coming  among  us.  Do  this;  and  I,  and  Lady  Sarah,  and 
Lady  Betty,  will  love  you  for  ever. 

As  to  your  public  conduct :  This  as  follows  is  what  I  could 
wish :  but  I  reckon  your  lady's  wisdom  will  put  us  both  right 
— no  disparagement,  sir;  since,  with  all  your  wit,  you  have 
not  hitherto  shown  much  wisdom,  you  know. 

Get  into  parliament  as  soon  as  you  can :  for  you  have  talons 
to  make  a  great  figure  there.  Who  so  proper  to  assist  in 
making  new  holding  laws,  as  those  whom  no  law  in  being 
could  hold  ? 

Then,  for  so  long  as  you  will  give  attendance  in  St. 
Stephen's  chapel — its  being  called  a  chapel,  I  hope,  will 
not  disgust  you :  I  am  sure  I  have  known  many  a  riot  there — 
a  speaker  has  a  hard  time  of  it !  but  we  peers  have  more 
decorum — but  what  was  I  going  to  say? — I  must  go  back. 

For  so  long  as  you  will  give  your  attendance  in  parliament, 
for  so  long  will  you  be  out  of  mischief;  out  of  private  mis- 
chief, at  least:  and  may  St.  Stephen's  fate  be  yours,  if  you 
wilfully  do  public  mischief! 

Wlien  a  new  election  comes,  3^ou  will  have  two  or  three  bor- 
oughs, you  know,  to  choose  out  of: — but  if  you  stay  till 
then,  I  had  rather  vou  were  for  the  shire. 

You  will  have  interest  enough,  T  am  sure;  and  being  so 
handsome  a  man,  the  women  will  malce  their  husbands  vote 
for  you. 

I  shall  long  to  read  your  speeches.  I  expect  you  will  speak, 
if  occasion  offer,  the  very  first  day.  You  want  no  courage, 
and  think  highly  enough  of  yourself,  and  lowly  enough  of 
everybody  else,  to  speak  on  all  occasions. 

As  to  the  methods  of  the  house,  you  have  spirit  enough,  I 
fear,  to  be  too  much  above  them :  take  care  of  that. — I  don't 
so  much  fear  your  want  of  good  manners.  To  men,  you 
want  no  decency,  if  they  don't  provoke  you :  as  to  that,  I  wish 


226  THE   HISTORY    OF 

you  would  only  learn  to  be  as  patient  of  contradiction  from 
others,  as  you  would  have  other  people  to  be  to  you. 

Although  I  would  not  have  you  to  be  a  courtier;  neither 
would  1  have  you  to  be  a  malcontent.  I  remember  {for  I 
have  it  down)  what  my  old  friend  Archibald  Hutcheson  said; 
and  it  was  a  very  good  saying — to  Mr.  Secretary  Craggs,  I 
think  it  was) — '^  I  look  upon  an  administration  as  entitled 
''  to  every  vote  I  can  with  good  conscience  give  it ;  for  a 
'  House  of  Commons  should  not  needlessly  put  drags  upon 
'  the  wheels  of  government :  and  when  I  have  not  given  it  my 
'  vote,  it  was  with  regret :  and,  for  my  country's  sake,  I 
'  wished  with  all  my  heart  the  measure  had  been  such  as  I 
'  could  have  approved.' 

And  another  saying  he  had,  which  was  this :  '  Neither  can 
'  an  opposition,  neither  can  a  minister,  be  always  wrong.  To 
'  be  a  plumb  man  therefore  with  either,  is  an  infallible  mark, 
'  that  that  man  must  mean  more  and  worse  than  he  will  own 
*  he  does  mean.' 

Are  these  sayings  bad,  sir  ?  are  they  to  be  despised  ? — Well, 
then,  why  should  I  be  despised  for  remembering  them,  and 
quoting  them,  as  I  love  to  do  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  if  you  loved 
my  company  more  than  you  do,  you  would  not  be  the  worse 
for  it.  I  may  say  so  without  any  vanity;  since  it  is  other 
men's  wisdom,  and  not  my  own,  that  I  am  so  fond  of. 

But  to  add  a  word  or  two  more  on  this  occasion ;  and  I  may 
never  have  such  another;  for  you  must  read  this  through — 
Love  honest  men,  and  herd  with  them,  in  the  house  and  out 
of  the  house;  by  whatever  names  they  be  dignified  or  distin- 
guished: Tceep  good  men  company,  and  you  shall  he  of  their 
number.  But  did  I,  or  did  I  not,  write  this  before? — Writ- 
ing, at  so  many  different  times,  and  such  a  quantity,  one  may 
forget. 

Yon  may  come  in  for  the  title  when  I  am  dead  and  gone — 
God  lielp  me ! — So  I  would  have  you  keep  an  equilibrium.  If 
once  you  get  the  name  of  being  a  fine  speaker,  you  may  have 
anything :  and,  to  be  sure,  you  have  naturally  a  great  deal  of 
elocution ;  a  tongue  that  would  delude  an  angel,  as  the  women 
say — to  their  sorrow,  some  of  them,  poor  creatures ! — A  lead- 


^y 


CLARISSA   HABLOWE.  227 

ing  man  in  the  House  of  Commons  is  a  very  important  char- 
acter ;  because  that  house  has  the  giving  of  money :  and  money 
makes  the  mare  to  go;  ay,  and  queens  and  kings  too,  some- 
times, to  go  in  a  manner  very  different  from  what  they  might 
otherwise  choose  to  go,  let  me  tell  you. 

However,  methinks,  I  would  not  have  you  take  a  place 
neither — it  will  double  your  value,  and  your  interest,  if  it  be 
believed  that  you  will  not :  for,  as  you  will  then  stand  in  no 
man's  way,  you  will  have  no  envy;  but  pure  sterling  respect; 
and  both  sides  will  court  you. 

For  your  part,  you  will  not  want  a  place,  as  some  others 
do,  to  piece  uj)  their  broken  fortunes.  If  you  can  now  live 
reputably  upon  tM^o  thousand  pounds  a  year,  it  will  be  hard 
if  you  cannot  hereafter  live  upon  seven  or  eight — less  you 
will  not  have,  if  you  oblige  me;  as  now,  by  marrying  so  fine 
a  lady,  very  much  you  will — and  all  this,  over  and  above 
Lady  Betty's  and  Lady  Sarah's  favours !  What,  in  the  name 
of  wonder,  could  possibly  possess  the  proud  Harlowes ! — 
That  son,  that  son  of  theirs ! — But,  for  his  dear  sister's  sake, 
I  will  say  no  more  of  him. 

I  never  was  offered  a  place  myself:  and  the  only  one  I 
would  have  taken,  had  I  been  offered  it,  was  master  of  the 
tuclchounds ;  for  I  loved  hunting  when  I  was  young;  and  it 
carries  a  good  sound  with  it  for  us  who  live  in  the  country. 
Often  have  I  thought  of  that  excellent  old  adage:  He  that 
eats  the  king's  goose,  shall  he  choked  with  his  feathers.  I 
wish  to  the  Lord,  this  was  thoroughly  considered  by  place- 
hunters  !  it  would  be  better  for  them,  and  for  their  poor 
families. 

I  could  say  a  great  deal  more,  and  all  equally  to  the  pur- 
pose. But  really  I  am  tired;  and  so  I  doubt  are  you.  And 
besides,  I  would  reserve  something  for  conversation. 

My  nieces  Montague,  and  Lady  Sarah  and  Lady  Betty, 
join  in  compliments  to  my  niece  that  is  to  be.  If  she  would 
choose  to  have  the  knot  tied  among  us,  pray  tell  her  that  we 
shall  see  it  securely  done:  and  we  will  make  all  the  country 
ring  and  blaze  for  a  week  together.  But  so  I  believe  I  said 
before. 

Vol.  IV— 17. 


228  THE   HISTORY    OF 

If  anything  further  may  be  needful  toward  promoting  your 
reciprocal  felicity,  let  me  know  it;  and  how  you  order  about 
the  day ;  and  all  that.  The  enclosed  bill  is  very  much  at  your 
service.  'Tis  payable  at  sight,  as  whatever  else  you  may  have 
occasion  for  shall  be. 

So  God  bless  you  both;  and  make  things  as  convenient  to 
my  gout  as  you  can;  though,  be  it  whenever  it  will,  I  will 
hobble  to  you;  for  I  long  to  see  you;  and  still  more  to  see 
my  niece;  and  am  (in  expectation  of  that  happy  opportunity) 

Your  most  affectionate  Uncle 

M. 


LETTER  XL VI. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Thursday,  May  25. 

Thou  secst,  Belford,  how  we  now  drive  before  the  wind. — 
The  dear  creature  now  comes  almost  at  the  first  word,  when- 
ever I  desire  the  honour  of  her  company.  I  told  her  last 
night,  that  apprehending  delay  from  Pritchard's  slowness,  I 
was  detern  Lined  to  leave  it  to  my  Lord  to  make  his  compli- 
ments in  his  own  way;  and  had  actually  that  afternoon  put 
my  writings  into  the  hands  of  a  very  eminent  lawyer.  Coun- 
sellor Williams,  with  directions  for  him  to  draw  up  settle- 
ments from  my  own  estate,  and  conformably  to  those  of  my 
mother !  which  I  put  into  his  hands  at  the  same  time.  It 
had  been,  I  assured  her,  no  small  part  of  my  concern,  that 
her  frequent  displeasure,  and  our  mutual  misapprehensions, 
had  hindered  me  from  advising  with  her  before  on  this  sub- 
ject. Indeed,  indeed,  my  dearest  life,  said  I,  you  have  hith- 
erto afforded  me  but  a  very  thorny  courtship. 

She  was  silent.  Kindly  silent.  For  well  know  I,  that  she 
could  have  recriminated  upon  me  with  a  vengeance.  But  I 
was  willing  to  see  if  she  were  not  loth  to  disoblige  me  now. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  229 

I  comforted  myself,  I  said,  with  the  hopes  that  all  my  diffi- 
culties were  now  over;  and  that  every  past  disobligation 
would  be  buried  in  oblivion. 

Now,  Belford,  I  have  actually  deposited  these  writings 
with  Counsellor  Williams;  and  I  expect  the  draughts  in  a 
week  at  farthest.  So  shall  be  doubly  armed.  For  if  I  at- 
tempt, and  fail,  these  will  be  ready  to  throw  in,  to  make  her 
have  patience  with  me  till  I  can  try  again. 

I  have  more  contrivances  still  in  embryo.  I  could  tell  thee 
of  a  hundred,  and  yet  hold  another  hundred  in  petto,  to  pop 
in  as  I  go  along,  to  excite  thy  surprise,  and  to  keep  up  thy 
attention.  Nor  rave  thou  at  me;  but  if  thou  art  my  friend, 
think  of  Miss  Howe's  letters,  and  of  her  smuggling  scheme. 
All  owing  to  my  fair  captive's  informations  and  incitements. 
Am  I  not  a  villain,  a  fool,  a  Beelzebub,  with  them  already? 
— Yet  no  harm  done  by  me,  nor  so  much  as  attempted? 

Everything  of  this  nature,  the  dear  creature  answered 
(with  a  downcast  eye,  and  a  blushing  cheek),  she  left  to  me. 
.  I  proposed  my  Lord's  chapel  for  the  celebration,  where  we 
might  have  the  presence  of  Lady  Betty,  Lady  Sarah,  and  my 
two  cousins  Montague. 

She  seemed  not  to  favour  a  public  celebration!  and  waved 
this  subject  for  the  present.  I  doubted  not  but  she  would  be 
as  Avilling  as  I  to  decline  a  public  wedding;  so  I  pressed  not 
this  matter  farther  just  then. 

But  patterns  I  actually  produced;  and  a  jeweller  was  to 
bring  us  this  day  several  sets  of  jewels  for  her  choice.  But 
the  patterns  she  would  not  open.  She  sighed  at  the  mention 
of  them :  the  second  patterns,  she  said,  that  had  been  offered 
to  her:*  and  very  peremptorily  forbid  the  jeweller's  coming; 
as  well  as  declined  my  offer  of  causing  my  mother's  to  be 
new-set,  at  least  for  the  present. 

I  do  assure  thee,  Belford,  I  was  in  earnest  in  all  this.  My 
whole  estate  is  nothing  to  me,  put  in  competition  with  her 
hoped-for  favour. 

She  then  told  me  that  she  had  put  into  writing  her  opin- 
ion of  my  general  proposals;  and  there  had  expressed  her 

*See   Vol.    I.    Letter   XLI. 


230  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

Eiind  as  to  clothes  and  jewels:  but  on  my  strange  behaviour 
to  her  {for  no  cause  that  she  hnew  of)  on  Sunday  night,  she 
had  torn  the  paper  in  two. 

I  earnestly  pressed  her  to  let  me  be  favoured  with  a  sight 
of  this  paper,  torn  as  it  was.  And,  after  some  hesitation,  she 
withdrew,  and  sent  it  to  me  by  Dorcas. 

I  perused  it  again.  It  was  in  a  manner  new  to  me,  though 
I  had  read  it  so  lately :  and,  by  my  soul,  I  could  hardly  stand 
it.  A  hundred  admirable  creatures  I  called  her  to  myself. 
But  I  charge  thee,  write  not  a  word  to  me  in  her  favour,  if 
thou  meanest  her  well;  for,  if  I  spare  her,  it  must  be  all  ex 
mero  motu. 

You  may  easily  suppose,  when  1  was  re-admitted  to  her 
presence,  that  I  ran  over  in  her  praises,  and  in  vows  of  grat- 
itude and  everlasting  love.  But  here's  the  devil;  she  still  re- 
ceives all  I  say  with  reserve ;  or  if  it  be  not  with  reserve,  she 
receives  it  so  much  as  her  due,  that  she  is  not  at  all  raised 
by  it.  Some  women  are  undone  by  praise,  by  flattery.  I 
myself,  a  man,  am  proud  of  praise.  Perhaps  thou  wilt  say 
that  those  are  most  proud  of  it  who  least  deserve  it;  as  those 
are  of  riches  and  grandeur  who  are  not  born  to  either.  I 
ovm,  that  to  be  superior  to  these  foibles,  it  requires  a  soul. 
Have  I  not  then  a  soul? — Surely,  I  have. — Let  me  then  be 
considered  as  an  exception  to  the  rule. 

ISTow  have  I  foundation  to  go  upon  in  my  terms.  ]\Iy 
Lord,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  generosity,  mentions  a  thou- 
sand pounds  a  year  penny-rents.  This  I  know,  that  were  I 
to  marry  this  lady,  he  would  rather  settle  upon  her  all  he  has 
a  mind  to  settle,  than  upon  me.  He  has  even  threatened, 
that  if  I  prove  not  a  good  husband  to  her,  he  will  leave  all  he 
can  at  his  death  from  me  to  her.  Yet  considers  not  that  a 
woman  so  perfect  can  never  be  displeased  with  her  husband 
but  to  his  disgrace:  for  who  will  blame  her? — Another  rea- 
son why  a  Lovelace  should  not  wish  to  marry  a  Clarissa. 

But  what  a  pretty  fellow  of  an  uncle  is  this  foolish  peer, 
to  think  of  making  a  wife  independent  of  her  emperor,  and 
a  rebel  of  course;  yet  smarted  himself  for  an  error  of  this 
kind! 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  231 

My  beloved,  in  her  torn  paper,  mentions  but  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  for  her  separate  use.  I  insisted  upon  her 
naming  a  larger  sum.  She  said  it  might  then  be  three;  and 
I,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  very  large  offers,  named  only 
five;  but  added  the  entire  disposal  of  all  arrears  in  her 
father's  hands  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Norton,  or  whom  she 
pleased. 

She  said  that  the  good  woman  would  be  uneasy  if  anything 
more  than  a  competency  were  done  for  her.  She  was  for 
suiting  all  her  dispositions  of  this  kind,  she  said,  to  the  usual 
way  of  life  of  the  person.  To  go  beyond  it,  was  but  to  put 
the  benefited  upon  projects,  or  to  make  them  awkward  in  a 
new  state ;  when  they  might  shine  in  that  to  which  they  were 
accustomed.  And  to  put  it  into  so  good  a  mother's  power  to 
give  her  son  a  beginning  in  his  business  at  a  proper  time; 
yet  to  leave  her  something  for  herself,  to  set  her  above  want, 
or  above  the  necessity  of  taking  back  from  her  child  what 
she  had  been  enabled  to  bestow  upon  him;  would  be  the 
height  of  such  a  worthy  parent's  ambition. 

Here's  prudence!  Here's  judgment  in  so  young  a  crea- 
ture! How  do  I  hate  the  Harlowes  for  producing  such  an 
angel! — Oh  why,  why,  did  she  refuse  my  sincere  address  to 
tie  the  knot  before  we  came  to  this  house ! 

But  yet,  what  mortifies  my  pride  is,  that  this  exalted  crea- 
ture, if  I  were  to  marry  her,  would  not  be  governed  in  her 
behaviour  to  me  by  love,  but  by  generosity  merely,  or  by 
blind  duty;  and  had  rather  live  single,  than  be  mine. 

I  cannot  bear  this.  I  would  have  the  woman  whom  I 
honour  with  my  name,  if  ever  I  confer  this  honour  upon  any, 
forego  even  her  superior  duties  for  me.  I  would  have  her 
look  after  me  when  I  go  out  as  far  as  she  can  see  me,  as  my 
Rosebud  after  her  Johnny;  and  meet  me  at  my  return  with 
rapture.  I  would  be  the  subject  of  her  dreams,  as  well  as  of 
her  waking  thoughts.  I  would  have  her  think  every  moment 
lost  that  is  not  passed  with  me:  sing  to  me,  read  to  me,  play 
to  me  when  I  pleased:  no  joy  so  great  as  in  obeying  me. 
When  I  should  be  inclined  to  love,  overwhelm  me  with  it; 
when    to    be    serious    or    solitary,    if    apprehensive    of    in- 


232  THE   HISTORY    OF 

trusion,  retiring  at  a  nod;  approaching  me  only  if  I  smiled 
encouragement;  steal  into  my  presence  with  silence;  out  of 
it,  if  not  noticed,  on  tiptoe.  Be  a  lady  easy  to  all  my  pleas- 
ures, and  valuing  those  most  who  most  contributed  to  them; 
only  sighing  in  private,  that  it  was  not  herself  at  the  time. 
Thus  of  old  did  the  contending  wives  of  the  honest  patri- 
archs; each  recommending  her  handmaid  to  her  lord,  as  she 
thought  it  would  oblige  him,  and  looking  upon  the  genial 
product  as  her  own. 

The  gentle  Waller  says,  women  are  horn  to  he  controlled. 

/    Gentle  as  he  was,  he  knew  that.    A  tyrant  husband  makes  a 
dutiful  wife.     And  why  do  the  sex  love  rakes,  but  because 

j       they  know  how  to  direct  their  uncertain  wills,  and  manage 

/L>_  them? 

Another  agreeable  conversation.  The  day  of  days  the 
subject.  As  to  fixing  a  particular  one,  that  need  not  be  done, 
my  charmer  says,  till  the  settlements  are  completed.  As  to 
marrying  at  my  Lord's  chapel,  the  ladies  of  my  family  pres- 
ent, that  would  be  making  a  public  affair  of  it ;  and  the  dear 
creature  observed,  with  regret,  that  it  seemed  to  be  my  lord's 
intention  to  make  it  so. 

It  could  not  be  imagined,  I  said,  but  that  his  lordship's 
setting  out  in  a  litter,  and  coming  to  town,  as  well  as  his 
taste  for  glare,  and  the  joy  he  would  take  to  see  me  married 
at  last,  and  to  her  dear  self,  would  give  it  as  much  the  air 
of  a  public  marriage  as  if  the  ceremony  were  performed  at 
his  own  chapel,  all  the  ladies  present. 

I  cannot,  said  she,  endure  the  thoughts  of  a  public  day.  It 
will  carry  with  it  an  air  of  insult  upon  my  whole  family. 
And  for  my  part,  if  my  lord  will  not  take  it  amiss  [and  per- 
haps he  will  not,  as  the  motion  came  not  from  himself,  but 
from  you,  Mr.  Lovelace],  I  will  very  willingly  dispense  with 
his  lordship's  presence;  the  rather,  as  dress  and  appearance 
then  will  be  unnecessary ;  for  I  cannot  bear  to  thinlc  of  deck- 
ing my  person  while  my  parents  are  in  tears? 

How  excellent  this!  Yet  do  not  her  parents  richly  de- 
serve to  be  in  tears? 


^ 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  233 

See,  Belford,  with  so  charming  a  niceness,  we  might  have 
been  a  long  time  ago  upon  the  verge  of  the  state,  and  yet 
found  a  great  deal  to  do,  before  we  entered  into  it. 

All  obedience,  all  resignation — no  will  but  hers.  I  with- 
drew, and  wrote  directly  to  my  lord;  and  she  not  disapprov- 
ing of  it,  I  sent  it  away.  The  purport  as  follows;  for  I  took 
no  copy. 

'  That  I  was  much  obliged  to  his  lordship  for  his  intended 

*  goodness  to  me  on  an  occasion  the  most  solemn  of  my  life. 
'  That  the  admirable  lady,  whom  he  so  justly  praised,  thought 
'  his  lordship's  proposals  in  her  favour  too  high.     That  she 

*  chose  not  to  make  a  public  appearance,  if,  without  dis- 
'  obliging  my  friends,  she  could  avoid  it,  till  a  reconciliation 

*  with  her  own  could  be  affected.     That  although  she  ex- 

*  pressed  a  grateful  sense  of  his  lordship's  consent  to  give  her 
*to  me  with  his  own  hand;  yet,  presuming  that  the  motive 

*  to  this  kind  intention  was  rather  to  do  her  honour,  than  it 

*  otherwise  would  have  been  his  own  choice  (especially  as 
'travelling  would  be  at  this  time  so  inconvenient  to  him), 

*  she  thought  it  advisable  to  save  his  lordship  trouble  on  this 

*  occasion ;  and  hoped  he  would  take  as  meant  her  declining 
'  the  favour. 

'  That  The  Lawn  will  be  most  acceptable  to  us  both  to 
'  retire  to :  and  the  rather,  as  it  is  to  his  lordship. 

'  But,  if  he  pleases,  the  jointure  may  be  made  from  my 
'  own  estate ;  leaving  to  his  lordship's  goodness  the  alter- 
'  native.' 

I  conclude  with  telling  him,  '  that  I  had  offered  to  present 
'the  lady  his  lordship's  bill;  but  on  her  declining  to  accept 
'  of  it  (having  m5^self  no  present  occasion  for  it)  I  return  it 
'  enclosed,  with  my  thanlcs,  &c.' 

And  is  not  this  going  a  plaguy  length?  What  a  figure 
should  I  make  in  rakish  annals,  if  at  last  I  should  be  caught 
in  my  own  gin  ? 

The  sex  may  say  what  they  will,  but  a  poor  innocent  fel- 
low had  need  to  take  great  care  of  himself,  when  he  dances 
upon  the  edge  of  the  matrimonial  precipice.  Many  a  faint- 
hearted man,  when  he  began  in  jest,  or  only  designed  to  ape 


234  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

gallantry,  has  been  forced  into  earnest,  by  being  over-prompt, 
and  taken  at  his  word,  not  knowing  how  to  own  that  he 
meant  less  than  the  lady  supposed  he  meant.  I  am  the  bet- 
ter enabled  to  judge  that  this  must  have  been  the  ease  of 
many  a  sneaking  varlet;  because  I,  who  know  the  female 
world  as  well  as  any  man  in  it  of  my  standing,  am  so  fre- 
quently in  doubt  of  myself,  and  know  not  what  to  make  of 
the  matter. 

Then  these  little  sly  rogues,  how  they  lie  couchant,  ready 
to  spring  upon  us  harmless  fellows  the  moment  we  are  in 
their  reach! — When  the  ice  is  once  broken  for  them,  how 
swiftly  can  they  make  to  port ! — Meantime,  the  subject  they 
can  least  speak  to,  they  most  tliinh  of.  Nor  can  you  talk  of 
the  ceremonj^,  before  they  have  laid  out  in  their  minds  how 
it  is  all  to  be.  Little  saucy-face  designers !  how  first  they 
draw  themselves  in,  then  us ! 

But  be  all  these  things  as  they  will.  Lord  M.  never  in  his 
life  received  so  handsome  a  letter  as  this  from  his  nephew 

L0VELA.CE. 

[The  lady,  after  having  given  to  Miss  Howe  the  particulars 
contained  in  Mr.  Lovelace's  last  letter,  thus  expresses  her- 
self :] 

A  principal  consolation  arising  from  these  favourable  ap- 
pearances is,  that  I,  who  have  now  but  one  only  friend,  shall 
most  probably,  and  if  it  be  not  my  own  fault,  have  as  many 
new  ones  as  there  are  persons  in  Mr.  Lovelace's  family;  and 
this  whether  Mr.  Lovelace  treat  me  kindly  or  not.  And  who 
knows  but  that,  by  degrees,  those  new  friends,  by  their  rank 
and  merit,  may  have  weight  enough  to  get  me  restored  to  the 
favour  of  my  relations  ?  till  which  can  be  effected,  I  shall  not 
be  tolerably  easy.  Happy  I  never  expect  to  be.  Mr.  Love- 
lace's mind  and  mine  are  vastly  different;  different  in  es- 
sentials. 

But  as  matters  are  at  present  circumstanced,  I  pray  you, 
my  dear  friend,  to  keep  to  yourself  everything  that  might 
bring  discredit  to  him,  if  revealed.     Better  anybody  expose 


K-^ 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  235 

a  man  than  a  wife,  if  I  am  to  be  his;  and  what  is  said  by 
you  will  be  thought  to  come  from  me. 

It  shall  be  my  constant  prayer,  that  all  the  felicities  which 
this  world  can  afford  may  be  yours:  and  that  the  Almighty 
will  never  suffer  you  nor  yours,  to  the  remotest  posterity, 
to  want  such  a  friend  as  my  Anna  Howe  has  been  to 

Her 

CLi^ujissA  Harlowe. 


LETTER  XLVIL 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

And  now  that  my  beloved  seems  secure  in  my  net,  for  my 
project  upon  the  vixen  Miss  Howe,  and  upon  her  mother :  in 
which  the  officious  prancer  Hickman  is  to  come  in  for  a 
dash. 

But  why  upon  her  mother,  methinks  thou  askest,  who,  un- 
known to  herself,  has  only  acted,  by  thy  impulse,  through 
thy  agent  Joseph  Leman,  upon  the  folly  of  old  Tony  the 
uncle  ? 

No  matter  for  that :  she  believes  she  acts  upon  her  own 
judgment;  and  deserves  to  be  punished  for  pretending  to 
judgment,  when  she  has  none. — Every  living  soul  but  myself, 
I  can  tell  thee,  shall  be  punished,  that  treats  either  cruelly 
or  disrespectfully  so  adored  a  lady. — What  a  plague !  is  it 
not  enough  that  she  is  teased  and  tormented  in  person  by  me  ? 

I  have  already  broken  the  matter  to  our  three  confederates ; 
as  a  supposed,  not  a  resolved-on  case  indeed.  And  yet  they 
know  that  with  me,  in  a  piece  of  mischief,  execution,  with 
its  swiftest  feet,  is  seldom  three  paces  behind  projection, 
which  hardly  ever  limps  neither. 

Mowbray  is  not  against  it.  It  is  a  scheme,  he  says,  worthy 
of  us:  and  we  have  not  done  anything  for  a  good  while  that 
has  made  a  noise. 


236  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Belton^  indeed^  hesitates  a  little,  because  matters  go 
wrong  between  him  and  his  Thomasine;  and  the  poor  fellow 
has  not  the  courage  to  have  his  sore  place  probed  to  the  bot- 
tom. 

TouRViLLE  has  started  a  fresh  game,  shrugs  his  shoulders, 
and  should  not  choose  to  go  abroad  at  present,  if  I  please. 
For  I  apprehend  that  (from  the  nature  of  the  project)  there 
will  be  a  kind  of  necessity  to  travel,  till  all  is  blown  over. 

To  ME,  one  country  is  as  good  as  another;  and  I  shall  soon, 
I  suppose,  choose  to  quit  this  paltry  island;  except  the  mis- 
tress of  my  fate  will  consent  to  cohabit  at  Jiome;  and  so  lay 
me  under  no  necessity  of  surprising  her  into  foreign  parts. 
Travelling,  thou  knowest,  gives  the  sexes  charming  oppor- 
tunities of  being  familiar  with  one  another.  A  very  few 
days  and  nights  must  now  decide  all  matters  betwixt  me 
and  my  fair  inimitable, 

DoLEMAN,  who  can  act  in  these  causes  only  as  chamber- 
counsel,  will  inform  us  by  pen  and  inl^  [his  right  hand  and 
right  side  having  not  yet  been  struck,  and  the  other  side  be- 
ginning to  be  sensible]  of  all  that  shall  occur  in  our  absence. 

As  for  THEE,  we  had  rather  have  thy  company  than  not; 
for  although  thou  art  a  wretched  fellow  at  contrivance,  yet 
art  thou  intrepid  at  execution.  But  as  thy  present  engage- 
ments make  thy  attendance  uncertain,  I  am  not  for  making 
thy  part  necessary  to  our  scheme;  but  for  leaving  thee  to 
come  after  us  when  abroad.  I  know  thou  canst  not  long 
live  without  us. 

The  project,  in  short,  is  this: — Mrs.  Howe  has  an  elder 
sister  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  who  is  lately  a  widow;  and  I  am 
well  informed  that  the  mother  and  daughter  have  engaged, 
before  the  latter  is  married,  to  pay  a  visit  to  this  lady,  who 
is  rich,  and  intends  Miss  for  her  heiress;  and  in  the  interim 
will  make  her  some  valuable  presents  on  her  approaching 
nuptials;  which,  as  Mrs.  Howe,  who  loves  money  more  than 
an3i;hing  but  herself,  told  one  of  my  acquaintance,  would 
be  worth  fetching. 

Now,  Jack,  nothing  more  need  be  done  than  to  hire  a  little 
trim  vessel,  which  shall  sail  a  pleasuring  backward  and  for- 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  237 

ward  to  Portsmouth,  Spithead,  and  the  Isle  of  Wight  for  a 
week  or  fortnight  before  we  enter  upon  our  parts  of  the  plot. 
And  as  Mrs.  Howe  will  be  for  making  the  best  bargain  she 
can  for  her  passage,  the  master  of  the  vessel  may  have  or- 
ders (as  a  perquisite  allowed  him  by  his  owners)  to  take 
what  she  will  give :  and  the  master's  name,  be  it  what  it  will, 
shall  be  Ganmore  on  the  occasion ;  for  I  know  a  rogue  of  that 
name,  who  is  not  obliged  to  be  of  any  country,  any  more 
than  we. 

Well,  then,  we  will  imagine  them  on  board.  I  will  be 
there  in  disguise.  They  know  not  any  of  ye  four — suppos- 
ing (the  scheme  so  inviting)  that  thou  canst  be  one. 

'Tis  plaguy  hard,  if  he  cannot  find,  or  malce  a  storm. 

Perhaps  they  will  be  sea-sick :  but  whether  they  be  or  not, 
no  doubt  they  will  keep  their  cabin. 

Here  will  be  Mrs.  Howe,  Miss  Howe,  Mr.  Hickman,  a 
maid,  and  a  footman,  I  suppose;  and  thus  we  will  order  it. 

I  know  it  will  be  hard  weather:  I  hnow  it  will:  and  be- 
fore there  can  be  the  least  suspicion  of  the  matter,  we  shall 
be  in  sight  of  Guernsey,  Jersey,  Dieppe,  Cherbourg,  or  any- 
where on  the  French  coast  that  it  shall  please  us  to  agree 
with  the  winds  to  blow  us:  and  then,  securing  the  footman, 
and  the  women  being  separated,  one  of  us,  according  to  lots 
that  may  be  cast,  shall  overcome,  either  by  persuasion  or 
force,  the  maid-servant:  that  will  be  no  hard  task;  and  she 
is  a  likely  wench  [I  have  seen  her  often]  :  one,  Mrs.  Howe; 
nor  can  there  be  much  difficulty  there;  for  she  is  full  of 
health  and  life,  and  has  been  long  a  widow:  another  [that, 
says  the  princely  lion,  must  be  //]  the  saucy  daughter;  who 
will  be  too  much  frighted  to  make  great  resistance  [violent 
spirits,  in  that  sex,  are  seldom  true  spirits — 'tis  but  where 
they  can}  and  after  beating  about  the  coast  for  three  or  four 
days  for  recreation's  sake,  and  to  make  sure  work,  and  till  we 
see  our  sullen  birds  begin  to  eat  and  sip,  we  will  set  them  all 
ashore  where  it  will  be  most  convenient;  sell  the  vessel  [to 
Mrs.  Townsend's  agents,  with  all  my  heart,  or  to  some  other 
smuggler],  or  give  it  to  Ganmore;  and  pursue  our  travels, 
and  tarry  abroad  till  all  is  hushed  up. 


238  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

ISTow  I  know  thou  wilt  make  difficulties,  as  it  is  thy  way; 
while  it  is  mine  to  conquer  them.  My  other  vassals  made 
theirs;  and  I  condescended  to  obviate  them:  as  thus  I  will 
thine,  first  stating  them  for  thee  according  to  what  I  know 
of  thy  phlegm. 

What,  in  the  first  place,  wilt  thou  ask,  shall  be  done  with 
Hickman?  who  will  be  in  full  parade  of  dress  and  primness, 
in  order  to  show  the  old  aunt  what  a  devilish  clever  fellow  of 
a  nephew  she  is  to  have. 

What ! — I'll  tell  thee — Hickman,  in  good  manners,  will 
leave  the  women  in  their  cabin — and,  to  show  his  courage 
with  his  breeding,  be  upon  deck. 

Well,  and  suppose  he  is? 

Suppose  he  is ! — Why  then  I  hope  it  is  easy  for  Ganmore, 
or  anybody  else,  myself  suppose  in  my  pea-jacket  and  great 
watch  coat  (if  any  other  make  a  scruple  to  do  it),  while  he 
stands  in  the  way,  gaping  and  staring  like  a  novice,  to 
stumble  against  him,  and  push  him  overboard ! — A  rich 
thought — is  it  not,  Belford? — He  is  certainly  plaguy  offi- 
cious in  the  ladies'  correspondence;  and,  I  am  informed, 
plays  double  between  mother  and  daughter,  in  fear  of  both. 
— dost  not  see  him.  Jack? — I  do — popping  up  and  down,  his 
wig  and  hat  floating  by  him;  and  paddling,  pawing,  and 
dashing,  like  a  frighted  mongrel — I  am  afraid  he  never 
ventured  to  learn  to  swim. 

But  thou  wilt  not  drown  the  poor  fellow ;  wilt  thou  ? 

ISTo,  no ! — that  is  not  necessary  to  the  project — I  hate  to  do 
mischiefs  supererogatory.  The  skiff  shall  be  ready  to  save 
him,  while  the  vessel  keeps  its  course :  he  shall  be  set  on  shore 
with  the  loss  of  wig  and  hat  only,  and  of  half  of  his  little 
wits,  at  the  place  where  he  embarked,  or  anywhere  else. 

Well,  but  shall  we  not  be  in  danger  of  being  hanged  for 
three  such  enormoiis  rapes,  although  Hickman  should  escape 
with  only  a  bellyful  of  sea  water  ? 

Yes,  to  be  sure,  when  caught. — But  is  there  any  likelihood 
of  that? — Besides,  have  we  not  been  in  danger  before  now 
for  worse  facts?  and  what  is  there  in  being  only  in  danger? 
— If  we  actually  were  to  appear  in  open  day  in  England  be- 


^^ 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  239 

fore  matters  are  made  up,  there  will  be  greater  likelihood 
that  these  women  will  not  prosecute  than  that  they  will. — 
For  my  own  part,  I  should  wish  they  may.  Would  not  a 
brave  fellow  choose  to  appear  in  court  to  such  an  arraign- 
ment, confronting  women  who  would  do  credit  to  his  at- 
tempt ?  The  country  is  more  merciful  in  these  cases  than  u 
in  a7iy  others:  I  should  therefore  lil^e  to  put  myself  upon  my 
country. 

Let  me  indulge  a  few  reflections  upon  what  thou  mayest 
think  the  worst  that  can  happen.  I  will  suppose  that  thou 
art  one  of  us;  and  that  all  five  are  actually  brought  to  trial 
on  this  occasion:  how  bravely  shall  we  enter  a  court,  /  at  the 
head  of  you,  dressed  out  each  man,  as  if  to  his  wedding  ap- 
pearance!— You  are  sure  of  all  the  women,  old  and  young, 
of  your  side. — What  brave  fellows  ! — what  fine  gentlemen ! 
— There  goes  a  charming  handsome  man ! — meaning  me,  to 
be  sure ! — who  could  find  in  their  hearts  to  hang  such  a  gen- 
tleman as  that?  whispers  one  lady,  sitting  perhaps  on  the 
right  hand  of  the  recorder  [I  suppose  the  scene  to  be  in 
London]  :  while  another  disbelieves  that  any  woman  could 
fairly  swear  against  me.  All  will  crowd  after  me:  it  will  be 
each  man's  happiness  (if  ye  shall  chance  to  be  bashful)  to 
be  neglected:  I  shall  be  found  to  be  the  greatest  criminal; 
and  my  safety,  for  which  the  general  voice  will  be  engaged, 
will  be  yours. 

But  then  comes  the  triumph  of  triumphs,  that  will  make 
the  accused  look  up,  while  the  accusers  are  covered  with  con- 
fusion. 

Make  room  there ! — stand  by ! — give  back ! — One  receiving 
a  rap,  another  an  elbow,  half  a  score  a  push  a-piece ! — 

Enter     the     slow-moving,     hooded-faced,     down-looking 
plaintiffs. — 

And  first  the  widow,  with  a  sorrowful  countenance,  though 
half-veiled,  pitying  her  daughter  more  than  herself.  The 
people,  the  women  especially,  who  on  this  occasion  will  be 
five-sixth  of  the  spectators,  reproaching  her. — You'd  have 
the  conscience,  would  you,  to  have  five  such  brave  gentlemen 
as  these  hanged  for  you  know  not  what? 


240  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

Next  comes  the  poor  maid — who,  perhaps,  has  been  rav- 
ished twenty  times  before;  and  had  not  appeared  now,  but 
for  company's  sake;  mincing,  simpering,  weeping,  by  turns; 
not  knowing  whether  she  should  be  sorry  or  glad. 

But  every  eye  dwells  upon  Miss ! — See,  see,  the  handsome 
gentleman  bows  to  her ! 

To  the  very  ground,  to  be  sure,  I  shall  bow;  and  kiss  my 
hand. 

See  her  confusion !  see  !  she  turns  from  him ! — Ay  !  that's 
because  it  is  in  open  court,  cries  an  arch  one ! — While  others 
admire  her. — Ay !  that's  a  girl  worth  venturing  one's  neck 
for! 

Then  we  shall  be  praised — even  the  judges,  and  the  whole 
crowded  bench,  will  acquit  us  in  their  hearts;  and  every  sin- 
gle man  wish  he  had  been  me ! — the  women,  all  the  time, 
disclaiming  prosecution,  were  the  case  to  be  their  own.  To 
be  sure,  Belford,  the  sufferers  cannot  put  half  so  good  a  face 
upon  the  matter  as  we. 

Then  what  a  noise  will  this  matter  make ! — Is  it  not 
enough,  suppose  us  moving  from  the  prison  to  the  sessions- 
house,*  to  make  a  noble  heart  thump  it  away  most  gloriously, 
when  such  a  one  finds  himself  attended  to  his  trial  by  a 
parade  of  guards  and  officers,  of  miens  and  aspects  warlike 
and  unwarlike ;  himself  their  whole  care,  and  their  business ! 
weapons  in  their  hands,  some  bright,  some  rusty,  equally 
venerable  for  their  antiquity  and  inof fensiveness !  others  of 
more  authoritative  demeanour,  strutting  before  with  fine 
painted  staves !  shoals  of  people  following,  with  a  Which 
is  he  whom  the  young  lady  appears  against? — Then,  let  us 
look  down,  look  up,  look  round,  which  way  we  will,  we  shall 
see  all  the  doors,  the  shops,  the  windows,  the  sign-irons,  and 
balconies  (garrets,  gutters,  and  chimney-tops  included),  all 
white-capped,  black-hooded,  and  periwigged,  or  crop-eared 
up  by  the  immobile  vulgus:  while  the  floating  street-swarm- 

*  Within  these  few  years  past,  a  passage  has  been  made  from  the 
prison  to  the  sessions-house,  whereby  malefactors  are  carried  into 
court  without  going  through  the  street.  Lovelace's  triumph  on  their 
supposed  march  shows  the  wisdom  of  this  alteration. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  241 

ers,  who  have  seen  us  pass  by  at  one  place,  run  with  stretched- 
out  necks,  and  strained  eyeballs,  a  round-about  way,  and 
elbow  and  shoulder  themselves  into  places  by  which  we  have 
not  passed,  in  order  to  obtain  another  sight  of  us;  every 
street  continuing  to  pour  out  its  swarms  of  late  comers,  to 
add  to  the  gathering  snowball;  who  are  content  to  take  de- 
scriptions of  our  persons,  behaviour,  and  countenances,  from 
those  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  been  in  time  to  see  us. 
Let  me  tell  thee.  Jack,  I  see  not  why  (to  judge  according 
to  our  principles  and  practices)  we  should  not  be  as  much 
elated  in  our  march,  were  this  to  happen  to  us,  as  others  may 
be  upon  any  other  the  most  moh-attracting  occasion — sup- 
pose a  lord  mayor  on  his  gawdy — suppose  a  victorious  gen- 
eral, or  ambassador,  on  his  public  entry — suppose  (as  1  be- 
gan with  the  lowest)  the  grandest  parade  that  can  be  sup- 
posed, a  coronation — for,  in  all  these,  do  not  the  royal  guard, 
the  heroic  trained  bands,  the  pendent,  clinging  throngs  of 
spectators,  with  their  waving  heads  rolling  to  and  fro  from 
house-tops  to  house-bottoms  and  street-ways,  as  I  have  above 
described,  make  the  principal  part  of  the  raree-show? 

And  let  me  ask  thee,  if  thou  dost  not  think  that  either  the 
mayor,  the  ambassador,  or  the  general  would  not  make  very 
pitiful  figures  on  their  galas,  did  not  the  trumpets  and  tab- 
rets  call  together  the  canaille  to  gaze  at  them  ? — Nor  perhaps 
should  we  be  the  most  guilty  heroes  neither:  for  who  knows 
how  the  magistrate  may  have  obtained  his  gold  chain?  while 
the  general  probably  returns  from  cutting  of  throats,  and 
from  murders,  sanctified  by  custom  only, — Cssar,  we  are 
told,*  had  won,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six,  when  he  was  assassi- 
nated fifty  pitched  battles,  had  taken  by  assault  above  a 
thousand  towns,  and  slain  near  1,200,000  men;  I  suppose 
exclusive  of  those  who  fell  on  his  own  side  in  slaying 
them.  Are  not  you  and  I,  Jack,  innocent  men,  and  babes 
in  swaddling-clothes,  compared  to  Caesar,  and  to  his  prede- 
cessor in  heroism,  Alexander,  dubbed,  for  murders  and  dep- 
redation, Magnus? 

*  Pliny  gives  this  account,  putting  the  number  of  men  slain  at 
1,100,092.     See  also  Lipsius  de  Constantia. 


243  THE   HISTORY    OF 

The  principal  difference  that  strikes  me  in  the  compari- 
son between  us  and  the  mayor,  the  ambassador,  the  general, 
on  their  gawdies,  is,  that  the  mob  make  a  greater  noise,  a 
louder  huzzaing,  in  the  one  ease  than  the  other,  which  is 
called  acclamation,  and  ends  frequently  in  higher  taste,  by 
throwing  dead  animals  at  one  another,  before  they  disperse; 
in  which  they  have  as  much  joy,  as  in  the  former  part  of 
the  triumph:  while  they  will  attend  us  with  all  the  marks 
of  an  awful  or  silent  (at  most  only  a  whispering)  respect; 
their  mouths  distended,  as  if  set  open  with  gags,  and  their 
voices  generally  lost  in  goggle-eyed  admiration. 

Well,  but  suppose,  after  all,  we  are  convicted;  what  have 
we  to  do,  but  in  time  make  over  our  estates,  that  the  sher- 
iffs may  not  revel  in  our  spoils? — There  is  no  fear  of  being 
hanged  for  such  a  crime  as  this,  while  we  have  money  or 
friends. — And  suppose  even  the  worst,  that  two  or  three  were 
to  die,  have  we  not  a  chance,  each  man  of  us,  to  escape  ?  The 
devil's  in  them,  if  they'll  hang  five  for  ravishing  three ! 

I  know  I  shall  get  off  for  one — were  it  but  for  family 
sake:  and  being  a  handsome  fellow,  I  shall  have  a  dozen  or 
two  of  young  maidens,  all  dressed  in  white,  go  to  court  to 
beg  my  life — and  what  a  pretty  show  they  will  make,  with 
their  white  hoods,  white  gowns,  white  petticoats,  white 
scarves,  white  gloves,  kneeling  for  me,  with  their  white 
handkerchiefs  at  their  eyes,  in  two  pretty  rows,  as  his 
Majesty  walks  through  them  and  nods  my  pardon  for  their 
sakes ! — And,  if  once  pardoned,  all  is  over :  for,  Jack,  in  a 
crime  of  this  nature  there  lies  no  appeal,  as  in  a  murder. 

So  thou  seest  the  worst  that  can  happen,  should  we  not 
make  the  grand  tour  upon  this  occasion,  but  stay  and  take 
our  trials.  But  it  is  most  likely  that  they  will  not  prosecute 
at  all.  If  not,  no  risk  on  our  side  will  be  run;  only  taking 
our  pleasure  abroad,  at  the  worst ;  leaving  friends  tired  of  us, 
in  order,  after  a  time,  to  return  to  the  same  friends  endeared 
to  us,  as  we  to  them,  by  absence. 

This,  Jack,  is  my  scheme,  at  the  first  running.  I  know  it 
is  capable  of  improvement — for  example :  I  can  land  these 
ladies  in  France;  whip  over  before  they  can  get  a  passage 


CLARISSA    HABLOWE.  243 

back,  or  before  Hickman  can  have  recovered  his  fright;  and 
so  find  means  to  entrap  my  beloved  on  board — and  then  all 
will  be  right;  and  I  need  not  care  if  I  were  never  to  return 
to  England. 

Memorandum,  To  be  considered  of — Wliether,  in  order  to 
complete  my  vengeance,  I  cannot  contrive  to  kidnap  away 
either  James  Harlowe  or  Solmes  ?  or  both  ?  A  man,  Jack, 
would  not  go  into  exile  for  nothing. 


LETTER  XLVIII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Bclford,  Esq. 

If,  Belford,  thou  likest  not  my  plot  upon  Miss  Howe,  I  have 
three  or  four  more  as  good  in  my  opinion;  better,  perhaps, 
they  will  be  in  thine :  and  so  'tis  but  getting  loose  from  thy 
present  engagement,  and  thou  shalt  pick  and  choose.  But 
as  for  thy  three  brethren,  they  must  do  as  I  would  have  them : 
and  so,  indeed,  must  thou — else  why  am  I  your  general? 
But  I  will  refer  this  subject  to  its  proper  season.  Thou 
knowest  that  I  never  absolutely  conclude  upon  a  project,  till 
'tis  time  for  execution ;  and  then  lightning  strikes  not  quicker 
than  I. 

And  now  to  the  subject  next  my  heart. 

Wilt  thou  believe  me,  when  I  tell  thee,  that  I  have  so  many 
contrivances  rising  up  and  crowding  upon  me  for  preference, 
with  regard  to  my  Gloriana,  that  I  hardly  know  which  to 
choose?  I  could  tell  thee  of  no  less  than  six  princely  ones, 
any  of  which  must  do.  But  as  the  dear  creature  has  not 
grudged  giving  me  trouble,  I  think  I  ought  not,  in  gratitude, 
to  spare  combustibles  for  her;  but,  on  the  contrary,  to  make 
her  stare  and  stand  aghast,  by  springing  three  or  four  mines 
at  once. 

Thou  rememberest  what  Shakespeare,  in  his  Troilus  and 
Vol.  IV— 18. 


244  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Cressida,  makes  Hector,  who,  however,  is  not  used  to  boast, 
say  to  Achilles  in  an  interview  between  them;  and  which, 
applied  to  this  watchful  lady,  and  to  the  vexation  she  has 
given  me,  and  to  the  certainty  I  now  think  I  have  of  sub- 
duing her,  will  run  thus :  supposing  the  charmer  before  me ; 
and  I  meditating  her  sweet  person  from  head  to  foot : 

Henceforth,  0  watchful  fair  one,  guard  thee  well : 
For  I'll  not  kill  thee  there!  nor  there!  nor  there! 
But,  by  the  zo7ie  that  circles  Venus'  waist, 
I'll  kill  thee  everywhere;  yea,  o'er  and  o'er. — 
Thou,  wisest  Belford,  pardon  me  this  brag: 
Her  watchfulness  draws  folly  from  my  lips; 
But  I'll  endeavour  deeds  to  match  the  words. 
Or  may  I  never 

Then,  I   imagine  thee  interposing  to  qualify  my  impa- 
tience, as  Ajax  did  to  Achilles: 

Do  not  chafe  thee,  cousin: 

^And  let  these  threats  alone, 


Till  accident  or  'purpose  bring  thee  to  it. 

All  that  vexes  me,  in  the  midst  of  my  gloried-in  devices, 
is,  that  there  is  a  sorry  fellow  in  the  world,  who  has  pre- 
sumed to  question  whether  the  prize,  when  obtained,  is 
worthy  of  the  pains  it  costs  me:  yet  knows  with  what  pa- 
tience and  trouble  a  bird-man  will  spread  an  acre  of  ground 
with  gins  and  snares;  set  up  his  stalking  horse,  his  glasses; 
plant  his  decoy-birds,  and  invite  the  feathered  throng  by  his 
whistle;  and  all  his  prize  at  last  (the  reward  of  early  hours, 
and  of  a  whole  morning's  pains)  only  a  simple  linnet. 

To  be  serious,  Belford,  I  must  acknowledge  that  all  our 
pursuits,  from  childhood  to  manhood,  are  only  trifles  of  dif- 
o  f erent  sorts  and  sizes,  proportioned  to  our  j^ears  and  views : 
but  then  is  not  a  fine  woman  the  noblest  trifle  that  ever  was 
or  could  be  obtained  by  man? — And  to  what  purpose  do  we 
say  ohtained,  if  it  be  not  in  the  way  we  wish  for? — If  a  man 
is  rather  to  be  lier  prize,  than  she  Tiisf 


^ 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  245 


And  now,  Belford,  what  dost  think? 
That  thou  art  a  cursed  fellow,  if- 


If — no  ifs — but  I  shall  be  very  sick  to-morrow.  I  shall, 
'faith. 

Sick! — Why  sick?  What  a-devil  shouldst  thou  be  sick 
for? 

For  more  good  reasons  than  one.  Jack. 

I  should  be  glad  to  hear  but  one. — Sick,  quotha !  Of  all 
thy  roguish  inventions  I  should  not  have  thought  of  this. 

Perhaps  thou  thinkest  my  view  to  be,  to  draw  the  lady  to 
my  bedside.  That's  a  trick  of  three  or  four  thousand  years 
old;  and  I  should  find  it  much  more  to  my  purpose,  if  I 
could  get  to  hers.  However,  I'll  condescend  to  make  thee  as 
wise  as  myself. 

I  am  excessively  disturbed  about  this  smuggling  scheme 
of  Miss  Howe.  I  have  no  doubt  that  my  fair  one,  were  I  to 
make  an  attempt,  and  miscarry,  will  fly  from  me,  if  she  can. 
I  once  believed  she  loved  me:  but  now  I  doubt  whether  she 
does  or  not;  at  least,  that  it  is  with  such  an  ardour,  as  Miss 
Howe  calls  it,  as  will  make  her  overlook  premeditated  fault, 
should  I  be  guilty  of  one. 

And  what  will  being  sick  do  for  thee? 

Have  patience.  I  don't  intend  to  be  so  very  bad  as  Dorcas 
shall  represent  me  to  be.  But  yet  I  know  I  shall  reach  con- 
foundedly, and  bring  up  some  clotted  blood.  To  be  sure  I 
shall  break  a  vessel :  there's  no  doubt  of  that :  and  a  bottle  of 
Eaton's  styptic  shall  be  sent  for;  but  no  doctor.  If  she  has 
humanity,  she  will  be  concerned.  But  if  she  has  love,  let  it 
have  been  pushed  ever  so  far  back,  it  will  on  this  occasion 
come  forward  and  show  itself;  not  only  in  her  eye,  but  in 
every  line  of  her  sweet  face. 

I  will  be  very  intrepid.  I  will  not  fear  death  or  anything 
else.  I  will  be  sure  of  being  well  in  an  hour  or  two,  having 
formerly  found  great  benefit  by  this  astringent  medicine,  on 
occasion  of  an  inward  bruise  by  a  fall  from  my  horse  in  hunt- 
ing, of  which  perhaps  this  malady  may  be  the  remains.  And 
this  will  show  her,  that  though  those  about  me  may  make 
the  most  of  it,  I  do  not ;  and  so  can  have  no  design  in  it. 


246  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

Well,  methinks  thou  sayest,  I  begin  to  think  tolerably  of 
this  device. 

I  knew  thou  would st,  when  I  explained  myself.  Another 
time  prepare  to  wonder;  and  banish  doubt. 

Now  Belford,  I  shall  expect  that  she  will  show  some  con- 
cern at  the  broken  vessel,  as  it  may  be  attended  with  fatal 
effects,  especially  to  one  so  fiery  in  his  temper  as  I  have  the 
reputation  to  be  thought  to  be:  and  the  rather,  as  I  shall 
calmly  attribute  the  accident  to  the  harasses  and  doubts  un- 
der which  1  have  laboured  for  some  time  past.  And  this 
will  be  a  further  proof  of  my  love,  and  will  demand  a  grate- 
ful return 

And  what  then,  thou  egregious  contriver? 

Why  then  I  shall  have  the  less  remorse,  if  I  am  to  use  a 
little  violence :  for  can  she  deserve  compassion,  who  shows 
none? 

And  what  if  she  show  a  great  deal  of  concern  f 

Then  shall  I  be  in  hopes  of  building  on  a  good  foundation. 
Love  hides  a  multitude  of  faults,  and  diminishes  those  it 
cannot  hide.  Love,  when  acknowledged,  authorises  free- 
dom ;  and  freedom  begets  freedom ;  and  I  shall  then  see  how 
far  I  can  go. 

Well  but,  Lovelace,  how  the  deuce  wilt  thou,  with  that  full 
health  and  vigour  of  constitution,  and  with  that  bloom  in 
thy  face,  make  anybody  believe  thou  art  sick? 

How ! — WTiy,  take  a  few  grains  of  ipecacuanha ;  enough 
to  make  me  reach  like  a  fury. 

Good! — But  how  wilt  thou  manage  to  bring  up  blood, 
and  not  hurt  thyself? 

Foolish  fellow !  Are  there  not  pigeons  and  chickens  in 
every  poulterer's  shop? 

Cry  thy  mercy. 

But  then  I  will  be  persuaded  by  Mrs.  Sinclair,  that  I 
have  of  late  confined  myself  too  much;  and  so  will  have  a 
chair  called,  and  be  carried  to  the  Park;  where  I  will  try 
to  walk  half  the  length  of  the  Mall,  or  so ;  and  in  my  return, 
amuse  myself  at  White's  or  the  Cocoa. 

And  what  will  this  do? 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  247 

Questioning  again! — I  am  afraid  thou'rt  an  infidel,  Bel- 
ford. — Why  then  shall  I  not  know  if  my  beloved  offers  to  go 
out  in  my  absence  ? — And  shall  I  not  see  whether  she  receives 
me  with  tenderness  at  my  return?  But  this  is  not  all:  / 
have  a  foreboding  that  something  affecting  will  happen 
wJiile  I  am  out.    But  of  this  more  in  its  place. 

x^nd  now,  Belford,  wilt  thou,  or  wilt  thou  not,  allow  that 
it  is  a  right  thing  to  be  sick  ? — Lord,  Jack,  so  much  delight 
do  I  take  in  my  contrivances,  that  I  shall  be  half  sorry  when 
the  occasion  for  them  is  over;  for  never,  never,  shall  I  again 
have  such  charming  exercise  for  my  invention. 

Meantime  these  plaguy  women  are  so  impertinent,  so  full 
of  reproaches,  that  I  know  not  how  to  do  anything  but  curse 
them.  And  then,  truly,  they  are  for  helping  me  out  with 
some  of  their  trite  and  vulgar  artifices.  Sally,  particularly, 
who  pretends  to  be  a  mighty  contriver,  has  just  now,  in  an 
insolent  manner,  told  me,  on  my  rejecting  her  proffered  aids, 
that  I  had  no  mind  to  conquer;  and  that  I  was  so  wicked 
as  to  intend  to  marry,  though  I  would  not  own  it  to  her. 

Because  this  little  devil  made  her  first  sacrifice  at  my  altar, 
she  thinks  she  may  take  any  liberty  with  me:  and  what 
makes  her  outrageous  at  times  is,  that  I  have  for  a  long 
time,  studiously,  as  she  says,  slighted  her  too  readily  offered 
favours.  But  is  it  not  very  impudent  in  her  to  think  that 
I  will  be  any  man's  successor?  It  is  not  come  to  that 
neither.  This,  thou  knowest,  was  always  my  rule — Once 
any  other  man's,  and  I  know  it,  and  never  more  mine.  It 
is  for  such  as  thou,  and  thy  brethren,  to  take  up  with  har- 
lots. I  have  been  always  aiming  at  the  merit  of  a  first 
discoverer. 

The  more  devil  I,  perhaps  thou  wilt  say,  to  endeavour  to 
corrupt  the  uncorrupted. 

But  I  say,  not;  since,  hence,  I  have  but  very  few  adulteries 
to  answer  for. 

One  affair,  indeed,  at  Paris,  with  a  married  lady  [I  believe 
I  never  told  thee  of  it]  touched  my  conscience  a  little:  yet 
brought  on  by  the  spirit  of  intrigue,  more  than  by  sheer 
wickedness.     I'll  give  it  thee  in  brief: 


248  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  A  French  marquis,  somewhat  in  years,  employed  by  his 
court  in  a  public  function  at  that  of  Madrid,  had  put  his 
charming  young  new-married  wife  under  the  control  and 
wardship,  as  I  may  say,  of  his  insolent  sister,  an  old  prude. 

'  I  saw  the  lady  at  the  opera.  I  liked  her  at  first  sight, 
and  better  at  second,  when  I  knew  the  situation  she  was 
in.  So,  pretending  to  make  my  addresses  to  the  prude, 
got  admittance  to  both. 

'  The  first  thing  I  had  to  do,  was  to  compliment  my 
prude  into  shyness  by  complaints  of  shyness :  next,  to  take 
advantage  of  the  marquise's  situation,  between  her  hus- 
band's jealousy  and  his  sister's  arrogance;  and  to  inspire 
her  with  resentment;  and,  as  I  hoped,  with  a  regard  to 
my  person.    The  French  ladies  have  no  dislike  to  intrigue. 

'  The  sister  began  to  suspect  me :  the  lady  had  no  mind 
to  part  with  the  company  of  the  only  man  who  had  been 
permitted  to  visit  her;  and  told  me  of  her  sister's  sus- 
picions. I  put  her  upon  concealing  the  prude,  as  if  un- 
known to  me,  in  a  closet  in  one  of  her  own  apartments, 
locking  her  in,  and  putting  the  key  in  her  own  pocket :  and 
she  was  to  question  me  on  the  sincerity  of  my  professions 
to  her  sister,  in  her  sister's  hearing. 

'  She  complied.  My  mistress  was  locked  up.  The  lady 
and  I  took  our  seats.  I  owned  fervent  love,  and  made 
high  professions:  for  the  marquise  put  it  home  to  me. 
The  prude  was  delighted  with  what  she  heard. 

'  And  how  dost  think  it  ended  ? — I  took  my  advantage 
of  the  lady  herself,  who  durst  not  for  her  life  cry  out; 
and  drew  her  after  me  to  the  next  apartment,  on  pretence 
of  going  to  seek  her  sister,  who  all  the  time  was  locked 
up  in  the  closet.' 

No  woman  ever  gave  me  a  private  meeting  for  nothing ; 
my  dearest  Miss  Harlowe  excepted. 

'  My  ingenuity  obtained  my  pardon :  the  lady  being  un- 
'  able  to  forbear  laughing  throughout  the  whole  affair,  to 
'  find  both  so  uncommonly  tricked ;  her  gaoleress  her  prisoner, 
'  safe  locked  up,  and  as  much  pleased  as  either  of  us.' 

The  English,  JacTc,  do  not  often  out-wit  the  French. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  249 

*  We  had  contrivances  afterwards  equally  ingenious,  in 
'  which  the  lady,  the  ice  once  broken  [once  subdued,  always 
'subdued^,  co-operated.  But  a  more  tender  tell-tale  re- 
'  vealed  the  secret — revealed  it  before  the  marquis  could 
'  come  to   cover  the   disgrace.     The  sister  was  inveterate ; 

*  the  husband  irreconcilable ;  in  every  respect  unfit  for  a  hus- 

*  band,  even  for  a  French  one — made,  perhaps,  more  delicate 

*  to  these  particulars  by  the  customs  of  a  people  among  whom 
'  he  was  then  resident,  so  contrary  to  those  of  his  own 
'  country-men.  She  was  obliged  to  throw  herself  into  my 
'  protection — nor  thought  herself  unhappy  in  it,  till  childbed 
'  pangs  seized  her :  then  penitence  and  death  overtook  her 
'  the  same  hour ! ' 

Excuse  a  tear,  Belford ! — She  deserved  a  better  fate ! 
What  had  such  a  vile  inexorable  husband  to  answer  for ! — 
The  sister  was  punished  effectually — that  pleases  me  on 
reflection — the  sister  effectually  punished  ! — But  perhaps  I 
have  told  thee  this  story  before. 


LETTER  XLIX. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Friday  Evening. 

Just  returned  from  an  airing  with  my  charmer,  complied 
with  after  great  importunity.  She  was  attended  by  the 
two  nymphs.  They  both  topt  their  parts ;  kept  their  eyes 
within  bounds;  made  moral  reflections  now  and  then.  0 
Jack !  what  devils  are  women,  when  all  tests  are  got  over, 
and  we  have  completely  ruined  them ! 

The  coach  carried  us  to  Hampstead,  to  Highgate,  to 
Muswell  Hill;  back  to  Hampstead  to  the  Upper  Flask: 
there,  in  compliment  to  the  nymphs,  my  beloved  consented 
to  alight  and  take  a  little  repast.  Then  home  early  by 
Kentish  town. 


250  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Delightfully  easy  she,  and  so  respectful  and  obliging  I, 
all  the  way,  and  as  we  walked  out  upon  the  heath,  to  view 
the  variegated  prospects  which  that  agreeable  elevation 
affords,  that  she  promised  to  take  now  and  then  a  little 
excursion  with  me.  I  thinlv.  Miss  Howe,  I  think,  said  I 
to  myself,  every  now  and  then  as  we  walked,  that  thy  wicked 
devices  are  superseded. 

But  let  me  give  thee  a  few  particulars  of  our  conversation 
in  the  circumrotation  we  took,  while  in  the  coach — she  had 
received  a  letter  from  Miss  Howe  yesterday,  I  presumed? 

She  made  no  answer.  How  happy  should  I  think  myself 
to  be  admitted  into  their  correspondence?  I  would  joyfully 
make  an  exchange  of  communications. 

So,  though  I  hoped  not  to  succeed  by  her  consent  [and 
little  did  she  think  I  had  so  happily  in  part  succeeded  with- 
out it],  I  thought  it  not  amiss  to  urge  for  it,  for  several 
reasons :  among  others,  that  I  might  account  to  her  for  my 
constant  employment  at  my  pen;  in  order  to  take  off  her 
jealousy  that  she  was  the  subject  of  thy  correspondence  and 
mine :  and  that  I  might  justify  my  secrecy  and  uncommuni- 
cativenes!^  by  her  own. 

I  proceeded  therefore — That  I  loved  familiar  letter  writ- 
ing, as  I  had  more  than  once  told  her,  above  all  the  species 
of  writing:  it  was  writing  from  the  heart  (without  the  fet- 
ters prescribed  by  method  or  study),  as  the  very  word  cor- 
respondence implied.  Not  the  heart  only;  the  soul  was  in 
it.  Nothing  of  body,  when  friend  writes  to  friend;  the 
mind  impelling  sovereignly  the  vassal  fingers.  It  was,  in 
short,  friendship  recorded ;  friendship  given  under  hand  and 
seal ;  demonstrating  that  the  parties  were  under  no  apprehen- 
sion of  changing  from  time  or  accident,  when  they  so  liberally 
gave  testimonies,  which  would  always  be  ready,  on  failure 
or  infidelity,  to  be  turned  against  them. — For  my  own  part, 
it  was  the  principal  diversion  I  had  in  her  absence ;  but  for 
this  innocent  amusement,  the  distance  she  so  frequently 
kept  me  at  would  have  been  intolerable. 

Sally  knew  my  drift;  and  said  she  had  had  the  honour 
to  see  two  or  three  of  my  letters,  and  of  Mr.  Belford's;     -^ 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  251 

and  she  thought  them  the  most  entertaining  that  she  had 
ever  read. 

My  friend  Belford^  I  said,  had  a  happy  talent  in  the  letter 
writing  way;  and  upon  all  subjects. 

I  expected  my  beloved  would  have  been  inquisitive  after 
our  subject:  but  (lying  perdue,  as  I  saw)  not  a  word  said 
she.     So  I  touched  upon  this  article  myself. 

Our  topics  were  various  and  diffuse:  sometimes  upon 
literary  articles  [she  was  very  attentive  upon  this]  ;  some- 
times upon  the  public  entertainments;  sometimes  amusing 
each  other  with  the  fruits  of  the  different  correspondences 
Ave  held  with  persons  abroad,  with  whom  we  had  contracted 
friendships;  sometimes  upon  the  foibles  and  perfections  of 
our  particular  friends;  sometimes  upon  our  own  present  and 
future  hopes;  sometimes  aiming  at  humour  and  raillery 
upon  each  other. — It  might  indeed  appear  to  savour  of 
vanity,  to  suppose  my  letters  would  entertain  a  lady  of  her 
delicacy  and  judgment:  but  yet  I  could  not  but  say,  that 
perhaps  she  would  be  far  from  thinking  so  hardly  of  me  as 
sometimes  she  had  seemed  to  do,  if  she  were  to  see  the  letters 
which  generally  passed  between  Mr.  Belford  and  me  [I  hope. 
Jack,  thou  hast  more  manners  than  to  give  me  the  lie, 
though  but  in  thy  heart]. 

She  then  spoke :  after  declining  my  compliment  in  such 
a  manner,  as  only  a  person  could  do,  who  deserved  it,  she 
said,  for  her  part,  she  had  always  thought  me  a  man  of 
sense  [a  man  of  sense.  Jack!  What  a  niggardly  praise!], 
— and  should  therefore  hope,  that  when  I  wrote,  it  exceeded 
even  my  speech:  for  that  it  was  impossible,  be  the  letters 
written  in  as  easy  and  familiar  a  style  as  they  would;,  but 
that  they  must  have  that  advantage  from  sitting  down  to 
write  them  which  prompt  speech  could  not  always  have. 
She  should  think  it  very  strange  therefore,  if  my  letters 
were  barren  of  sentiment;  and  as  strange,  if  I  gave  myself 
liberties  upon  premeditation,  which  could  have  no  excuse  at 
all,  but  from  a  thoughtlessness  which  itself  wanted  excuse. 
— But  if  Mr.  Belford's  letters  and  mine  were  upon  subjects 
so  general,  and  some  of  them  equally  (she  presumed)  instruc- 


252  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

tive  and  entertaining,  she  could  not  but  say  that  she  should 
be  glad  to  see  any  of  them;  and  particularly  those  which 
Miss  Martin  had  seen  and  praised. 
This  was  put  close. 

I  looked  at  her,  to  see  if  I  could  discover  any  tincture  of 
jealousy  in  this  hint;  that  Miss  Martin  had  seen  what  I  had 
not  shown  to  her.  But  she  did  not  look  it:  so  I  only  said 
I  should  be  very  proud  to  show  her  not  only  those,  but  all 
that  passed  between  Mr.  Belf ord  and  me ;  but  I  must  remind 
her  that  she  knew  the  condition. 

No,  indeed !   with  a   sweet  lip   pouted  out,   as   saucy  as 

pretty;  implying  a  lovely  scorn,  that  yet  can  only  be  lovely 

in  youth  so  blooming,  and  beauty  so  divinely  distinguished. 

How  I  long  to  see  such  a  motion  again !    Her  mouth  only 

can  give  it. 

But  I  am  mad  with  love — ^yet  eternal  will  be  the  distance, 
at  the  rate  I  go  on :  now  fire,  now  ice,  my  soul  is  continu- 
ally upon  the  hiss,  as  I  may  say.  In  vain,  however,  is  the 
trial  to  quench — what,  after  all,  is  unquenchable. 

Pr'ythee,  Belford,  forgive  my  nonsense,  and  my  Vulcan- 
like metaphors — Did  I  not  tell  thee,  not  that  I  am  sick  of 
'  love,  but  that  I  am  mad  with  it?  Why  brought  I  such  an 
angel  into  such  a  house?  into  such  company? — And  why  do 
I  not  stop  my  ears  to  the  sirens,  who,  knowing  my  aversion 
to  wedlock,  are  perpetually  touching  that  string? 

I  was  not  willing  to  be  answered  so  easily:  I  was  sure 
that  what  passed  between  two  such  young  ladies  (friends  so 
dear)  might  be  seen  by  everybody:  I  had  more  reason  than 
anybody  to  wish  to  see  the  letters  that  passed  between  her 
and  Miss  Howe;  because  I  was  sure  they  must  be  full  of 
admirable  instruction,  and  one  of  the  dear  correspondents 
had  deigned  to  wish  my  entire  reformation. 

She  looked  at  me  as  if  she  would  look  me  through :  I 
thought  I  felt  eye-beam  after  eye-beam  penetrate  my  shiver- 
ing reins. — But  she  was  silent.  ISTor  needed  her  eyes  the 
assistance  of  speech. 

ISTevertheless,  a  little  recovering  myself,  I  hoped  that 
nothing  unhappy   had   befallen   either   Miss   Howe   or   her 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  253 

mother.  The  letter  of  yesterday  sent  by  a  particular  hand: 
she  opening  it  with  great  emotion — seeming  to  have  expected 
it  sooner — were  the  reasons  for  my  apprehensions. 

We  were  then  at  Muswell  Hill :  a  pretty  country  within  the 
eye,  to  Polly,  was  the  remark,  instead  of  replying  to  me. 

But  I  was  not  so  to  be  answered — I  should  expect  some 
charming  subjects  and  characters  from  two  such  pens :  I 
hoped  everything  went  on  well  between  Mr.  Hickman  and 
Miss  Howe.  Her  mother's  heart,  I  said,  was  set  upon  that 
match :  Mr.  Hickman  was  not  without  his  merits :  he  was 
what  the  ladies  called  a  sober  man:  but  I  must  needs  say, 
that  I  thought  Miss  Howe  deserved  a  husband  of  a  very 
different  cast ! 

This,  I  supposed,  would  have  engaged  her  into  a  subject 
from  which  I  could  have  wiredrawn  something: — for  Hick- 
man is  one  of  her  favourites — why,  I  can't  divine,  except 
for  the  sake  of  opposition  of  character  to  that  of  thy  honest 
friend. 

But  she  cut  me  short  by  a  look  of  disapprobation,  and 
another  cool  remark  upon  a  distant  view;  and,  How  far  off. 
Miss  Horton,  do  you  think  that  clump  of  trees  may  he? 
pointing  out  of  the  coach. — So  I  had  done. 

Here  endeth  all  I  have  to  write  concerning  our  conversa- 
tion on  this  our  agreeable  airing. 

We  have  both  been  writing  ever  since  we  came  home. 
I  am  to  be  favoured  with  her  company  for  an  hour,  before 
she  retires  to  rest. 

All  that  obsequious  love  can  suggest,  in  order  to  engage 
her  tenderest  sentiments  for  me  against  to-morrow's  sick- 
ness, will  I  aim  at  when  we  meet.  But  at  parting  will  com- 
plain of  a  disorder  in  my  stomach. 

We  have  met.  All  was  love  and  unexceptionable  respect 
on  my  part.  Ease  and  complaisance  on  hers.  She  was  con- 
cerned for  my  disorder.  So  sudden! — Just  as  we  parted! 
But  it  was  nothing.    I  should  be  quite  well  by  the  morning. 

Faith,  Jack.  I  think  I  am  sick  already.  Is  it  possible  for 
such  a  giddy  fellow  as  me  to  persuade  myself  to  be  ill !     I 


254  THE   HISTORY    OF 

am  a  better  mimic  at  this  rate  than  I  wish  to  be.  But  every 
nerve  and  fibre  of  me  is  always  ready  to  contribute  its  aid. 
whether  by  health  or  by  ailment,  to  carry  a  resolved-on 
roguery  into  execution. 

Dorcas  has  transcribed  for  me  the  whole  letter  of  Miss 
Howe,  dated  Sunday,  May  14,*  of  which  before  I  had  only 
extracts.  She  found  no  other  letter  added  to  that  parcel: 
but  this,  and  that  which  I  copied  myself  in  character  last 
Sunday  whilst  she  was  at  church,  relating  to  the  smuggling 
scheme,t  are  enough  for  me. 

Dorcas  tells  me  that  her  lady  has  been  removing  her  papers 
from  the  mahogany  chest  into  a  wainscot  box,  which  held 
her  linen,  and  which  she  put  into  her  dark  closet.  We  have 
no  key  of  that  at  present.  No  doubt  but  all  her  letters, 
previous  to  those  I  have  come  at,  are  in  that  box.  Dorcas 
is  uneasy  upon  it:  yet  hopes  that  her  lady  does  not  suspect 
her ;  for  she  is  sure  that  she  laid  in  everything  as  she  found  it. 


LETTER  L. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Cocoa-tree,  Saturday,  May  27. 

This  ipecacuanha  is  a  most  disagreeable  medicine.  That 
these  cursed  physical  folks  can  find  out  nothing  to  do  us 
good,  but  what  would  poison  the  devil !  In  the  other  world, 
were  they  only  to  take  physic,  it  would  be  punishment  enough 
of  itself  for  a  misspent  life.  A  doctor  at  one  elbow,  and 
an  apothecary  at  the  other,  and  the  poor  soul  labouring 
under  their  prescribed  operations,  he  need  no  worse  tor- 
mentors. ^ 
But  now  this  was  to  take  down  my  countenance.  It  has 
done  it:  for,  with  violent  Teachings,  having  taken  enough  to 
*  See  Letter  XXII.  of  this  vol.         f  See  Letter  XXXV.  of  this  voL 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  255 

make  me  sick,  and  not  enough  water  to  carry  it  off,  I  pres- 
ently looked  as  if  I  had  kept  my  bed  a  fortnight.  Ill  jesting, 
as  I  thought  in  the  midst  of  the  exercise,  with  edge  tools, 
and  worse  with  physical  ones. 

Two  hours  it  held  me.  I  had  forbid  Dorcas  to  let  her 
lady  know  anything  of  the  matter;  out  of  tenderness  to 
her;  being  willing,  when  she  knew  my  prohibition,  to  let 
her  see  that  I  expected  her  to  be  concerned  for  me. — 

Well,  but  Dorcas  was  nevertheless  a  woman,  and  she  can 
whisper  to  her  lady  the  secret  she  is  enjoined  to  keep ! 

Come  hither,  toad  [sick  as  the  devil  at  the  instant]  ;  let 
me  see  what  a  mixture  of  grief  and  surprise  may  be  beat 
up  together  in  thy  puden-face. 

That  won't  do.  That  dropt  jaw,  and  mouth  distended 
into  the  long  oval,  is  more  upon  the  horrible  than  the 
grievous. 

Nor  that  pinking  and  winliing  with  thy  odious  eyes,  as 
my  charmer  once  called  them. 

A  little  better  that;  yet  not  quite  right:  but  keep  your 
mouth  closer.  You  have  a  muscle  or  two  which  you  have 
no  command  of,  between  your  cheek  bone  and  your  lips, 
that  should  carry  one  corner  of  your  mouth  up  towards 
your  crow's  foot,  and  that  down  to  meet  it. 

There  !  Begone  !  Be  in  a  plaguy  hurry  running  up  stairs 
and  down,  to  fetch  from  the  dining-room  what  you  carry  up 
on  purpose  to  fetch,  till  motion  extraordinary  put  you  out  of 
breath,  and  give  you  the  sigh  natural. 

What's  the  matter,  Dorcas? 

Nothing,  Madam. 

My  beloved  wonders  she  has  not  seen  me  this  morning, 
no  doubt;  but  is  too  shy  to  say  she  wonders.  Eepeated 
What's  the  matter,  however,  as  Dorcas  runs  up  and  down 
stairs  by  her  door,  bring  on,  0  Madam!  my  master!  my 
poor  master ! 

What !  How  !  When ! — and  all  the  monosyllables  of  sur- 
prise. 

\Within  parenthesis  let  me  tell  thee,  that  I  have  often 
thought  that  the  little  words  in  the  republic  of  letters,  like 


256  THE   HISTORY    OF 

the  little  folks  in  a  nation,  are  the  most  significant.  The 
trisyllables,  and  the  rumblers  of  syllables  more  than  three, 
are  but  the  good-for-little  jnagnates.] 

I  must  not  tell  you,  Madam — My  master  ordered  me  not 
to  tell  you — but  he  is  in  a  worse  way  than  he  thinks  for ! — 
But  he  would  not  have  you  frighted. 

High  concern  took  possession  of  every  sweet  feature.  She 
pitied  me ! — By  my  soul,  she  pitied  me ! 

Where  is  he? 

Too  much  in  a  hurry  for  good  manners  [another  paren- 
thesis. Jack!  Good  manners  are  so  little  natural,  that  we 
ought  to  be  composed  to  observe  them:  politeness  will  not 
live  in  a  storm.]  I  cannot  stay  to  answer  questions,  cries 
the  wench — though  desirous  to  answer  [a  third  parenthesis 
— Like  the  people  crying  proclamations,  running  away  from 
the  customers  they  want  to  sell  to.]  This  hurry  puts  the 
lady  in  a  hurry  to  ask  [a  fourth,  by  way  of  embellishing 
the  third!]  as  the  other  does  the  people  in  a  hurry  to  buy. 
And  I  have  in  my  eye  now  a  whole  street  raised,  and  running 
after  a  proclamation  or  express-crier,  as  if  the  first  was  a 
thief,  the  other  his  pursuers. 

At  last,  0  Lord!  let  Mrs.  Lovelace  know! — There  is 
danger  to  be  sure !  whispered  from  one  nymph  to  another ; 
but  at  the  door,  and  so  loud,  that  my  listening  fair  one 
might  hear. 

Out  she  darts — As  how !  as  how,  Dorcas ! 

0  Madam — A  vomiting  of  blood!  A  vessel  broke,  to  be 
sure. 

Down  she  hastens;  finds  every  one  as  busy  over  my 
blood  in  the  entry,  as  if  it  were  that  of  the  Neapolitan 
saint. 

In  steps  my  charmer,  with  a  face  of  sweet  concern. 

How  do  you,  Mr.  Lovelace ! 

Oh,  my  best  love  ! — Very  well ! — Very  well ! — ISTothing^  at 
all !  nothing  of  consequence ! — I  shall  be  well  in  an  in&taiit ! 
— Straining  again !  for  I  was  indeed  plaguy  sick,  though  no 
more  blood  came. 

In  short,  Belford,  I  have  gained  my  end.     I  see  the  dear 


CLARISSA    IIABLOWE.  357 

soul  loves  me.     I  see  she  forgives  me  all  that's  past.     I  see 
I  have  credit  for  a  new  score. 

Miss  Howe,  I  defy  thee,  my  dear — Mrs.  Townsend ! — 
Who  the  devil  are  you? — Troop  away  with  your  contra- 
bands. No  smuggling !  nor  smuggler,  but  myself !  Nor 
will  the  choicest  of  my  fair  one's  favours  be  long  prohibited 
goods  to  me ! 

Every  one  is  now  sure  that  she  loves  me.  Tears  were  in 
her  eyes  more  than  once  for  me.  She  suffered  me  to  take 
her  hand,  and  kiss  it  as  often  as  I  pleased.  On  Mrs.  Sin- 
clair's mentioning  that  I  too  much  confined  myself,  she 
pressed  me  to  take  an  airing;  but  obligingly  desired  me  to 
be  careful  of  myself.  Wished  I  would  advise  with  a  physician. 
God  made  physicians,  she  said. 

I  did  not  think  that.  Jack.  God  indeed  made  us  all.  But 
I  fancy  she  meant  physic  instead  of  physicians;  and  then  the 
phrase  might  mean  what  the  vulgar  phrase  means — God 
sends  meat,  the  Devil  cooTcs. 

I  was  well  already,  on  taking  the  styptic  from  her  dear 
hands. 

On  her  requiring  me  to  take  the  air,  I  asked  if  I  might 
have  the  honour  of  her  company  in  a  coach;  and  this,  that 
I  might  observe  if  she  had  an  intention  of  going  out  in  my 
absence. 

If  she  thought  a  chair  were  not  a  more  proper  vehicle  for 
my  case,  she  would  with  all  her  heart ! 

There's  a  precious ! 

I  kissed  her  hand  again !  She  was  all  goodness  ! — Would 
to  Heaven  I  better  deserved  it,  I  said ! — But  all  were  golden 
days  before  us ! — Her  presence  and  generous  concern  had 
done  everything.  I  was  well !  Nothing  ailed  me.  But 
since  my  beloved  will  have  it  so,  I'll  take  a  little  airing ! — 
Let  a  chair  be  called  ! — Oh,  my  charmer !  were  I  to  have  owed 
this  indisposition  to  my  late  harasses  and  to  the  uneasiness  I 
have  had  for  disobliging  you;  all  is  infinitely  compensated 
by  your  goodness. — All  the  art  of  healing  is  in  your  smiles ! 
— Your  late  displeasure  was  the  only  malady ! 


258  THE   HISTORY    OF 

While  Mrs,  Sinclair,  and  Dorcas,  and  Polly,  and  even 
poor  silly  Mabel  [for  Sally  went  out,  as  my  angel  came  in] 
with  uplifted  hands  and  eyes,  stood  thanking  Heaven  that 
I  was  better,  in  audible  whispers:  See  the  power  of  love, 
cried  one! — What  a  charming  husband,  another! — Happy 
couple,  all! 

Oh,  how  the  dear  creature's  cheek  mantled ! — How  her  eyes 
sparkled! — How  sweetly  acceptable  is  praise  to  conscious 
merit,  while  it  but  reproaches  when  applied  to  the  unde- 
serving ! — What  a  new,  what  a  gay  creation  it  makes  at  once 
in  a  diffident  or  dispirited  heart! 

And  now,  Belford,  was  it  not  worth  while  to  be  sick? 
And  yet  I  must  tell  thee,  that  too  many  pleasanter  expedients 
offer  themselves,  to  make  trial  any  more  of  this  confounded 
ipecacuanha. 


LETTER  LI. 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe. 

Saturday,  May  27. 

Mr.  Lovelace^  my  dear,  has  been  very  ill.  Suddenly  taken. 
With  a  vomiting  of  blood  in  great  quantities.  Some  vessel 
broken.  He  complained  of  a  disorder  in  his  stomach  over 
night.  I  was  the  more  affected  with  it,  as  I  am  afraid  it 
was  occasioned  hy  the  violent  contentions  hetiveen  us. — But 
was  I  in  fault? 

How  lately  did  I  think  I  hated  him ! — But  hatred  and 
anger,  I  see,  are  but  temporary  passions  with  me.  One 
cannot,  my  dear,  hate  people  in  danger  of  death,  or  who 
are  in  distress  or  affliction.  My  heart,  I  find,  is  ^ot  proof 
against  kindness,  and  acknowledgments  of  errors  committed. 

He  took  great  care  to  have  his  illness  concealed  from  me  as 
long  as  he  could.  So  tender  in  the  violence  of  his  disorder! 
— So  desirous  to  make  the  best  of  it! — I  wish  he  had  not 
been  ill  in  my  sight.     I  was  too  much  affected — everybody 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  259 

alarming  me  with  his  danger.  The  poor  man,  from  such 
high  health,  so  suddenly  taken ! — and  so  unprepared ! — 

He  is  gone  out  in  a  chair.  I  advised  him  to  do  so.  I  fear 
that  my  advice  was  wrong;  since  quiet  in  such  a  disorder 
must  needs  be  best.  We  are  apt  to  be  so  ready,  in  cases  of 
emergency,  to  give  our  advice,  without  judgment,  or  waiting 
for  it! — I  proposed  a  physician  indeed;  but  he  would  not 
hear  of  one.  I  have  great  honour  for  the  faculty;  and  the 
greater,  as  I  have  always  observed  that  those  who  treat  the 
professors  of  the  art  of  healing  contemptuously,  too  generally 
treat  higher  institutions  in  the  same  manner. 

I  am  really  very  uneasy.  For  I  have,  I  doubt,  exposed 
myself  to  him,  and  to  the  women  below.  They  indeed  will 
excuse  me,  as  they  think  us  married.  But  if  he  be  not  gen- 
erous, I  shall  have  cause  to  regret  this  surprise;  which  (as 
I  had  reason  to  think  myself  unaccountably  treated  by  him) 
has  taught  me  more  than  I  knew  of  myself. 

'Tis  true  I  have  owned  more  than  once,  that  I  could  have 
liked  Mr.  Lovelace  above  all  men.  I  remember  the  debates 
you  and  I  used  to  have  on  this  subject,  when  I  was  your 
happy  guest.  You  used  to  say,  and  once  you  wrote,*  that 
men  of  his  cast  are  the  men  that  our  sex  do  not  naturally 
dislike:  while  I  held  that  such  were  not  (however  that  might 
be)  the  men  we  ought  to  like.  But  what  with  my  relations 
precipitating  of  me,  on  one  hand,  and  what  with  his  unhappy 
character,  and  embarrassing  ways,  on  the  other,  I  had 
no  more  leisure  than  inclination  to  examine  my  own  heart 
in  this  particular.  And  this  reminds  me  of  a  passage  hi  one 
of  your  former  letters,  which  I  will  transcribe,  though  it 
was  written  in  raillery.  '  May  it  not  be,'  say  you,f  '  that  you 
'  have  had  such  persons  to  deal  with,  as  have  not  allowed  you 
*  to  attend  to  the  throbs ;  or  if  you  had  them  a  little  now 
'  and  then,  whether,  having  had  two  accounts  to  place  them 
'  to,  you  have  not  by  mistake  put  them  to  the  wrong  one  ? ' 
A  passage,  which,  although  it  came  into  my  mind  when  Mr. 
Lovelace  was  least  exceptionable,  yet  that  I  have  denied  any 
efficacy  to,  when  he  has  teased  and  vexed  me,  and  given  me 

*  See  Letter  XXVII.  of  this  volume.  f  See  Vol.  I.  Letter  XII. 

Vol.  IV— 19. 


260  THE   HISTORY    OF 

cause  of  suspicion.  For,  after  all,  my  dear,  Mr.  Lovelace  is 
^not  wise  in  all  his  ways.  And  should  we  not  endeavour,  as 
much  as  is  possible  (where  we  are  not  attached  by  natural 
ties),  to  like  and  dislike  as  reason  bids  us,  and  according  to 
the  merit  or  demerit  of  the  object?  If  love,  as  it  is  called, 
is  allowed  to  be  an  excuse  for  our  most  unreasonable  follies, 
and  to  lay  level  all  the  fences  that  a  careful  education  has 
surrounded  us  by,  what  is  meant  by  the  doctrine  of  subdu- 
ing our  passions? — But,  oh,  my  dearest  friend,  am  I  not 
^^  guilty  of  a  punishable  fault,  were  I  to  love  this  man  of 
errors?  And  has  not  my  own  heart  deceived  me,  when  I 
thought  I  did  not?  And  what  must  be  that  love,  that  has 
not  some  degree  of  purity  for  its  object?  I  am  afraid  of 
recollecting  some  passages  in  my  cousin  Morden's  letter.* 
— And  yet  why  fly  I  from  subjects  that,  duly  considered, 
might  tend  to  correct  and  purify  my  heart?  I  have  carried, 
I  doubt,  my  notions  on  this  head  too  high,  not  to  practice, 
but  for  my  practice.  Yet  think  me  not  guilty  of  prudery 
neither;  for  had  I  found  out  as  much  of  myself  before;  or, 
rather,  had  he  given  me  heart's-ease  enough  before  to  find 
it  out,  yr^n  should  have  had  my  confession  sooner. 

Nevertheless,  let  me  tell  you  (what  I  hope  I  may  justly 
tell  you),  that  if  again  he  give  me  cause  to  resume  distance 
and  reserve.  I  hope  my  reason  will  gather  strength  enough 
from  his  imperfections  to  enable  me  to  keep  my  passions 
under. — W'lat  can  we  do  more  than  govern  ourselves  by 
the  temporary  lights  lent  us? 

You  will  not  wonder  that  I  am  grave  on  this  detection 
— Detection,  must  I  call  it?    What  can  I  call  it? 

Dissatisfied  with  myself,  I  am  afraid  to  look  back  upon 
what  I  have  written:  and  yet  know  not  how  to  have  done 
writing.  I  never  was  in  such  an  odd  frame  of  mind. — I 
know  not  how  to  describe  it. — "Was  you  ever  so  f — Afraid  of 
the  censure  of  her  you  love — yet  not  conscious  that  you  de- 
serve it? 

Of  this,  however,  I  am  convinced,  that  I  should  indeed 
deserve  censure,  if  I  kept  any  secret  of  my  heart  from  you. 

*  See  Letter  XII.  of  this  volume. 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  261 

But  I  will  not  add  another  word,  after  I  have  assured  you, 
that  I  will  look  still  more  narrowly  into  myself:  and  that 
I  am 

Your  equally  sincere  and  affectionate 

Cl.  Haelowe. 


LETTER  LII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Saturday  Evening. 

I  HAD  a  charming  airing.  No  return  of  my  malady.  My 
heart  perfectly  easy,  how  could  my  stomach  be  other\vise? 

But  when  I  came  home,  I  found  that  my  sweet  soul  had 
been  alarmed  by  a  new  incident — The  inquiry  after  us  both, 
in  a  very  suspicious  manner,  and  that  by  description  of  our 
persons,  and  not  by  names,  by  a  servant  in  a  blue  livery 
turned  up  and  trimmed  with  yellow. 

Dorcas  was  called  to  him,  as  the  upper  servant;  and  she 
refusing  to  answer  any  of  the  fellow's  questions,  unless  he 
told  his  business,  and  from  whom  he  came,  the  fellow  (as 
short  as  she)  said,  that  if  she  would  not  answer  him,  perhaps 
she  might  answer  somebody  else;  and  went  away  out  of 
humour. 

Dorcas  hurried  up  to  her  lady,  and  alarmed  her  not  only 
with  the  fact,  but  with  her  own  conjectures;  adding  that 
he  was  an  ill-looking  fellow,  and  she  was  sure  could  come 
for  no  good. 

The  livery  and  the  features  of  the  servant  were  particularly 
inquired  after,  and  as  particularly  described — Lord  hless  her! 
no  end  of  her  alarms,  she  thought!  And  then  did  her  ap- 
prehensions anticipate  every  evil  that  could  happen. 

She  wished  Mr.  Lovelace  would  come  in. 

Mr.  Lovelace  came  in  soon  after;  all  lively,  grateful,  full 
of  hopes,  of  duty,  of  love,  to  thank  his  charmer,  and  to  con- 
gratulate with  her  upon  the  cure  she  had  performed.     And 


262  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

then  she  told  the  story,  with  all  its  circumstances;  and 
Dorcas,  to  point  her  lady's  fears,  told  us  that  the  servant 
was  a  sun-burnt  fellow,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  been  at  sea. 

He  was  then,  no  doubt.  Captain  Singleton's  servant,  and 
the  next  news  she  should  hear,  was,  that  the  house  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  whole  ship's  crew;  the  vessel  lying  no  farther 
off,  as  she  understood,  than  Eotherhithe. 

Impossible,  I  said.  Such  an  attempt  would  not  be  ushered 
in  by  such  a  manner  of  inquiry.  And  why  may  it  not  rather 
be  a  servant  of  your  cousin  Morden,  with  notice  of  his  arrival, 
and  of  his  design  to  attend  you? 

This  surmise  delighted  her.  Her  apprehensions  went  off, 
and  she  was  at  leisure  to  congratulate  me  upon  my  sudden 
recovery;  which  she  did  in  the  most  obliging  manner. 

But  we  had  not  sat  long  together,  when  Dorcas  again 
came  fluttering  up  to  tell  us,  that  the  footman,  the  very 
footman  was  again  at  the  door,  and  inquired  whether  Mr. 
Lovelace  and  his  lady,  ly  name,  had  not  lodgings  in  this 
house?  He  asked,  he  told  Dorcas,  for  no  harm.  But  his 
disavowing  of  harm,  was  a  demonstration  with  my  appre- 
hensive fair  one,  that  harm  was  intended.  And  as  the  fellow 
had  not  been  answered  by  Dorcas,  I  proposed  to  go  down 
to  the  street  parlour,  and  hear  what  he  had  to  say. 

I  see  your  causeless  terror,  my  dearest  life,  said  I,  and 
your  impatience. — Will  you  be  pleased  to  walk  down — and 
without  being  observed  (for  he  shall  com_e  no  farther  than 
the  parlour  door),  you  may  hear  all  that  passes? 

She  consented.  We  went  down.  Dorcas  bid  the  man 
come  forward.  Well,  friend,  what  is  your  business  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lovelace? 

Bowing,  scraping,  I  am  sure  you  are  the  gentleman,  sir. 
Why,  sir,  my  business  is  only  to  know  if  your  honour  be 
here,  and  to  be  spoken  with ;  or  if  you  shall  be  here  for  any 
time  ? 

Whom  came  you  from  ? 

From  a  gentleman  who  ordered  me  to  say,  if  I  was  made 
to  tell,  but  not  else,  it  was  from  a  friend  of  Mr.  John  Har- 
lowe,  Mrs.  Lovelace's  eldest  uncle. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  263 

The  dear  creature  was  ready  to  sink  upon  this.  It  was 
hut  of  late  that  she  had  provided  herself  with  salts.  She 
pulled  them  out. 

Do  you  know  anything  of  Colonel  Morden,  friend?  said  I. 

'No;  I  never  heard  of  his  name. 

Of  Captain  Singleton? 

No,  sir.    But  the  gentleman,  my  master,  is  a  Captain  too. 

What  is  his  name? 

I  don't  know  if  I  should  tell. 

There  can.  be  no  harm  in  telling  the  gentleman's  name, 
if  you  come  upon  a  good  account. 

That  I  do;  for  my  master  told  me  so;  and  there  is  not 
an  honester  gentleman  on  the  face  of  God's  yearth. — His 
name  is  Captain  Tomlinson,  sir. 

I  don't  know  such  a  one. 

I  believe  not,  sir.  He  was  pleased  to  say  he  don't  know 
your  honour,  sir;  but  I  heard  him  say  as  how  he  should  not 
be  an  unwelcome  visitor  to  you  for  all  that. 

Do  you  know  such  a  man  as  Captain  Tomlinson,  my 
dearest  life  \_aside'],  your  uncle's  friend? 

No;  but  my  uncle  may  have  acquaintance,  no  doubt,  that 
I  don't  know. — But  I  hope  [trembling]  this  is  not  a  irick. 

Well,  friend,  if  your  master  has  anything  to  say  to  Mr. 
Lovelace,  you  may  tell  him  that  Mr.  Lovelace  is  here;  and 
will  see  him  whenever  he  pleases. 

The  dear  creature  looked  as  if  afraid  that  my  engagement 
was  too  prompt  for  my  own  safety;  and  away  went  the 
fellow — I  wondering,  that  she  might  not  wonder,  that  this 
Captain  Tomlinson,  whoever  he  were,  came  not  himself,  or 
sent  not  a  letter  the  second  time,  when  he  had  reason  to 
suppose  that  I  might  be  here. 

Meantime,  for  fear  that  this  should  be  a  contrivance  of 
James  Harlowe,  who,  I  said,  loved  plotting,  though  he  had 
not  a  head  turned  for  it,  I  gave  some  precautionary  direc- 
tions to  the  servants,  and  the  women,  whom,  for  the  greater 
parade,  I  assembled  before  us :  and  my  beloved  was  resolved 
not  to  stir  abroad  till  she  saw  the  issue  of  this  odd  affair. 

And  here  must  I  close,  though  in  so  great  a  puzzle. 


264:  THE   HISTORY    OF 

Only  let  me  add  that  poor  Belton  wants  thee;  for  I  dare 
not  stir  for  my  life. 

Mowbray  and  Tourville  skulk  about  like  vagabonds,  with- 
out heads,  without  hands,  without  souls;  having  neither 
you  nor  me  to  conduct  them.  They  tell  me,  they  shall  rust 
beyond  the  power  of  oil  or  action  to  brighten  them  up,  or 
give  them  motion. 

How  goes  it  with  thy  uncle? 


LETTEE  LIII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Sunday,  May  28. 

This  story  of  Captain  Tomlinson  employed  us  not  only 
for  the  time  we  were  together  last  night,  but  all  the  while 
we  sat  at  breakfast  this  morning.  She  would  still  have  it 
that  it  was  the  prelude  to  some  mischief  from  Singleton.  I 
insisted  (according  to  my  former  hint)  that  it  might  much 
more  probably  be  a  method  taken  by  Colonel  Morden  to 
alarm  her,  previous  to  a  personal  visit.  Travelled  gentlemen 
affected  to  surprise  in  this  manner.  And  why,  dearest  crea- 
ture, said  I,  must  everything  that  happens,  which  we  cannot 
immediately  account  for,  be  what  we  least  wish? 

She  had  had  so  many  disagreeable  things  befall  her  of 
late,  that  her  fears  were  too  often  stronger  than  her 
hopes. 

And  this.  Madam,  makes  me  apprehensive  th^you  will 
get  into  so  low-spirited  a  way,  that  you  will  not  be  able  to 
enjoy  the  happiness  that  seems  to  await  us. 

Her  duty  and  her  gratitude,  she  gravely  said,  to  the  Dis- 
penser of  all  good,  would  secure  her,  she  hoped,  against 
unthankfulness.  And  a  thankful  spirit  was  the  same  as  a 
joyful  one. 

So,  Belford,  for  all  her  future  joys  she  depends  entirely 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  265 

upon  the  invisible  Good.  She  is  certainly  right;  since  those 
who  fix  least  upon  second  causes  are  the  least  likely  to  be 
disappointed — And  is  not  this  gravity  for  her  gravity? 

She  had  hardly  done  speaking,  when  Dorcas  came  running 
up  in  a  hurry — she  set  even  my  heart  into  a  palpitation — 
thump,  thump,  thump,  like  a  precipitated  pendulum  in  a 
clock-case — flutter,  flutter,  flutter,  my  charmer's,  as  by  her 
sweet  bosom  rising  to  her  chin  I  saw. 

This  lower  class  of  people,  my  beloved  herself  observed, 
were  for  ever  aiming  at  the  stupid  wonderful,  and  for  making 
even  common  incidents  matter  of  surprise. 

Why  the  devil,  said  I  to  the  wench,  this  alarming  hurry? 
— And  with  your  spread  fingers,  and  your  0  Madams,  and 
0  sirs ! — and  be  cursed  to  you !     Would  there  have  been  a 
second  of  time  difference,  had  you  come  up  slowly? 
Captain  Tomlinson,  sir ! 

Captain  Devilson,  what  care  I? — Do  you  see  how  you 
have  disordered  your  lady? 

Good  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  my  charmer,  trembling  [see. 
Jack,  when  she  has  an  end  to  serve,  I  am  good  Mr.  Lovelace], 
if — if  my  brother, — if  Captain  Singleton  should  appear — 
pray  now — I  beseech  you — let  me  beg  of  you — to  govern 
your  temper — My  brother  is  my  brother — Captain  Singleton 
is  but  an  agent. 

My  dearest  life,  folding  my  arms  about  her  [when  she 
asks  favours,  thought  I,  the  devil's  in  it,  if  she  will  not  allow 
of  such  innocent  freedom  as  this,  from  good  Mr.  Lovelace 
too},  you  shall  be  witness  of  all  passes  between  us. — Dorcas, 
desire  the  gentleman  to  walk  up. 

Let  me  retire  to  my  chamber  first ! — Let  me  not  be  known 
to  be  in  the  house ! 

Charming  dear! — Thou  seest,  Belford,  she  is  afraid  of 
leaving  me ! — Oh,  the  little  witchcrafts !  Were  it  not  for 
surprises  now  and  then,  how  would  an  honest  man  know 
where  to  have  them? 

She  withdrew  to  listen. — And  though  this  incident  has 
not  turned  out  to  answer  all  I  wished  from  it,  yet  is  it  neces- 
sary, if  I  would  acquaint  thee  with  my  whole  circulation,  to 


266  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

be  very  particular  in  what  passed  between  Captain  Tomlinson 
and  me. 

Enter  Captain  Tomlinson,  in  a  riding-dress,  whip  in  hand. 

Your  servant,  sir, — Mr.  Lovelace,  I  presume? 

My  name  is  Lovelace,  sir. 

Excuse  the  day,  sir. — Be  pleased  to  excuse  my  garb.  I  am 
obliged  to  go  out  of  town  directly,  that  I  may  return  at 
night. 

The  day  is  a  good  day.    Your  garb  needs  no  apology. 

When  I  sent  my  servant,  I  did  not  know  that  I  should  find 
time  to  do  myself  this  honour.  All  that  I  thought  I  could 
do  to  oblige  my  friend  this  journey,  was  only  to  assure 
myself  of  your  abode;  and  whether  there  were  a  probability 
of  being  admitted  to  the  speech  either  of  you  or  your  lady. 

Sir,  you  best  know  your  own  motives.  What  your  time 
will  permit  you  to  do,  you  also  best  know.  And  here  I  am, 
attending  your  pleasure. 

My  charmer  owned  afterwards  her  concern  on  my  being  so 
short.  Whatever  I  shall  mingle  of  her  emotions,  thou  wilt 
easily  guess  I  had  afterwards. 

Sir,  I  hope  no  offence.     I  intend  none. 

None — None  at  all,  sir. 

Sir,  I  have  no  interest  in  the  affair  I  come  about.  I  may 
appear  officious ;  and  if  I  thought  I  should,  I  would  decline 
any  concern  in  it,  after  I  have  just  hinted  what  it  is. 

And  pray,  sir,  what  is  it? 

May  I  ask  you,  sir,  without  offence,  whether  ygu,  wish  to 
be  reconciled,  and  to  co-operate  upon  honourable  terms,  with 
one  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Harlowe;  preparative,  as  it 
may  be  hoped,  to  a  general  reconciliation? 

Oh,  how  my  heart  fluttered!  cried  my  charmer. 

I  can^t  tell,  sir — \^and  then  it  fluttered  still  more,  no 
doubt:']  The  whole  family  have  used  me  extremely  ill.  They 
have  taken  greater  liberties  with  my  character  than  are  jus- 
tifiable; and  with  my  family  too;  which  I  can  less  forgive. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  267 

Sir,  sir,  I  have  done.     I  beg  pardon  for  this  intrusion. 

My  deloved  was  then  ready  to  sink,  and  thought  very 
hardly  of  me. 

But,  pray,  sir,  to  the  immediate  purpose  of  your  present 
commission;  since  a  commission  it  seems  to  be. 

It  is  a  commission,  sir;  and  such  a  one  as  I  thought 
would  be  agreeable  to  all  parties,  or  I  should  not  have  given 
myself  concern  about  it. 

Perhaps  it  may,  sir,  when  known.  But  let  me  ask  you 
one  previous  question — Do  you  know  Colonel  Morden,  sir? 

No,  sir.  If  you  mean  personally,  1  do  not.  But  I  have 
heard  my  good  friend  Mr.  John  Harlowe  talk  of  him  with 
great  respect;  and  as  a  co-trustee  with  him  in  a  certain 
trust. 

Lovel.  1  thought  it  probable,  sir,  that  the  Colonel  might 
be  arrived;  that  you  might  be  a  gentleman  of  his  acquaint- 
ance; and  that  something  of  an  agreeable  surprise  might  be 
intended 

Capt.  Had  Colonel  Morden  been  in  England,  Mr.  John 
Harlowe  would  have  known  it;  and  then  I  should  not  have 
been  a  stranger  to  it. 

Lovel.  Well  but,  sir,  have  you  then  any  commission  to  me 
from  Mr.  John  Harlowe? 

Capt.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you,  as  briefly  as  I  can,  the  whole 
of  what  I  have  to  say;  but  you'll  excuse  me  also  a  previous 
question,  for  which  curiosity  is  not  my  motive;  but  it  is 
necessary  to  be  answered  before  I  can  proceed;  as  you  will 
judge  when  you  hear  it. 

Lovel.    What,  pray,  sir,  is  your  question? 

Capt.  Briefly,  whether  you  are  actually,  and  bona  fide, 
married  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe? 

I  started,  and  in  a  haughty  tone,  Is  this,  sir,  a  question 
that  must  be  answered  before  you  can  proceed  in  the  business 
you  have  undertaken? 

I  mean  no  offence,  ]\Ir.  Lovelace.  Mr.  Harlowe  sought 
to  me  to  undertake  this  office.  I  have  daughters  and  nieces 
of  my  own.  I  thought  it  a  good  office,  or  I,  who  have 
many  considerable  affairs  upon  my  hands,  had  not  accepted 


268  THE   HISTORY    OF 

of  it.  I  know  the  world;  and  will  take  the  liberty  to  say, 
that  if  that  young  lady 

Captain  Tomlinson,  I  think  you  are  called  ? 

ily  name  is  Tomlinson. 

Why  then.  Captain  Tomlinson,  no  liberty,  as  you  call  it, 
will  be  taken  well,  that  is  not  extremely  delicate,  when  that 
lady  is  mentioned. 

When  you  had  heard  me  out,  Mr.  Lovelace,  and  had  found 
I  had  so  behaved  as  to  make  the  caution  necessary,  it  would 
have  been  just  to  have  given  it. — Allow  me  to  say,  I  know 
what  is  due  to  the  character  of  a  woman  of  virtue,  as  well 
as  any  man  alive. 

Why,  sir!  Why,  Captain  Tomlinson,  you  seem  warm. 
If  you  intend  anything  by  this  \^01i,  how  I  trembled!  said  the 
Lady,  when  she  tooTc  notice  of  this  part  of  our  conversation 
afterwards,']  I  will  only  say  that  this  is  a  privileged  place. 
It  is  at  present  my  home,  and  an  asylum  for  any  gentleman 
who  thinks  it  worth  his  while  to  inquire  after  me,  be  the 
manner  or  end  of  his  inquiry  what  it  will. 

I  know  not,  sir,  that  I  have  given  occasion  for  this.  I 
make  no  scruple  to  attend  you  elsewhere,  if  I  am  trouble- 
some here.  I  was  told  I  had  a  warm  young  gentleman  to 
deal  with:  but  as  I  knew  my  intention,  and  that  my  com- 
mission was  an  amicable  one,  I  was  the  less  concerned  about 
that.  I  am  twice  your  age,  Mr.  Lovelace,  I  daresay:  but 
I  do  assure  you,  that  if  either  my  message  or  my  manner 
give  you  offence,  I  can  suspend  the  one  or  the  other  for  a 
day,  or  for  ever,  as  you  like.  And  so,  sir,  any  time  before 
eight  to-morrow  morning,  you  will  let  me  know  your  further 
commands. — And  was  going  to  tell  me  where  he  might  be 
found. 

Captain  Tomlinson,  said  I,  you  answer  well.  I  love  a 
man  of  spirit.     Have  you  not  been  in  the  army? 

I  have,  sir;  but  have  turned  my  sword  into  a  ploughshare, 
as  the  Scripture  has  it, — [there  was  a  clever  fellow.  Jack! — 
he  was  a  good  man  with  somebody,  I  warrant!  Oh,  what  a 
fine  coat  and  cloak  for  a  hypocrite  will  a  text  of  Scripture, 
properly  applied,  make  at  any  time  in  the  eye  of  the  pious ! 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  269 

— how  easily  are  the  good  folks  taken  in !] — and  all  my 
delight,  added  he,  for  some  years  past,  has  been  in  cultivat- 
ing my  paternal  estate.  I  love  a  brave  man,  Mr.  Lovelace, 
as  well  as  ever  I  did  in  my  life.  But  let  me  tell  you,  sir, 
that  when  you  come  to  my  time  of  life,  you  will  be  of 
opinion,  that  there  is  not  so  much  true  bravery  in  youthful 
choler,  as  you  may  now  think  there  is. 

A  clever  fellow  again,  Belf ord ! — Ear  and  heart,  both  at 
once,  he  took  in  my  charmer ! — 'Tis  well,  she  says,  there  are 
some  men  who  have  wisdom  in  their  anger. 

Well,  Captain,  that  is  reproof  for  reproof.  So  we  are 
upon  a  footing.  And  now  give  me  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
the  import  of  your  commission. 

Sir,  you  must  first  allow  me  to  repeat  my  question:  Are 
you  really,  and  bona  fide,  married  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe? 
or  are  you  not  yet  married? 

Bluntly  put,  Captain.  But  if  I  answer  that  I  am,  what 
then? 

Why  then,  sir,  I  shall  say  that  you  are  a  man  of  honour. 

That  I  hope  I  am,  whether  you  say  it  or  not.  Captain 
Tomlinson. 

Sir,  I  will  be  very  frank  in  all  I  have  to  say  on  this  sub- 
ject— Mr.  John  Harlowe  has  lately  found  out  that  you  and 
his  niece  are  both  in  the  same  lodgings;  that  you  have  been 
long  so;  and  that  the  lady  was  at  the  play  with  you  yester- 
day was  se'night ;  and  he  hopes  that  you  are  actually  married. 
He  has  indeed  heard  that  you  are;  but  as  he  knows  your 
enterprising  temper,  and  that  you  have  declared  that  you 
disdain  a  relation  to  their  family,  he  is  willing  by  me  to  have 
your  marriage  confirmed  from  your  own  mouth,  before  he 
take  the  steps  he  is  inclined  to  take  in  his  niece's  favour. 
You  will  allow  me  to  say,  Mr.  Lovelace,  that  he  will  not  be 
satisfied  with  an  answer  that  admits  of  the  least  doubt. 

Let  me  tell  you,  Captain  Tomlinson,  that  it  is  a  high 
degree  of  vileness  for  any  man  to  suppose 

Sir — Mr.  Lovelace — don't  put  yourself  into  a  passion.  The 
lady's  relations  are  jealous  of  the  honour  of  their  family. 
They  have  prejudices  to  overcome  as  well  as  you — advan- 


270  THE   HISTORY    OF 

tage  may  have  been  taken — and  the  lady,  at  the  time,  not 
to  blame. 

This  lady,  sir,  could  give  no  such  advantages:  and  if  she 
had,  what  must  the  man  be,  Captain  Tomlinson,  who  could 
have  taken  them? — Do  you  know  the  lady,  sir? 

I  never  had  the  honour  to  see  her  but  once;  and  that 
was  at  church;  and  should  not  know  her  again. 

Not  know  her  again,  sir ! — I  thought  there  was  not  a 
man  living  who  had  once  seen  her,  and  would  not  know  her 
among  a  thousand. 

I  remember,  sir,  that  I  thought  I  never  saw  a  finer  woman 
in  my  life.  But,  Mr.  Lovelace,  I  believe  you  will  allow 
that  it  is  better  that  her  relations  should  have  wronged  you, 
than  you  the  ladij,  I  hope,  sir,  you  will  permit  me  to  repeat 
my  question. 

Enter  Dorcas,  in  a  hurry. 

A  gentleman,  this  minute,  sir,  desires  to  speak  with  your 
honour — \^My  lady,  sir! — Aside.'] 

Could  the  dear  creature  put  Dorcas  upon  telling  this  fib, 
yet  want  to  save  me  one? 

Desire  the  gentleman  to  walk  into  one  of  the  parlours. 
I  will  wait  on  him  presently.  [Exit  Dorcas. 

The  dear  creature,  I  doubted  not,  wanted  to  instruct  me 
how  to  answer  the  Captain's  home-put.  I  knew  how  I 
intended  to  answer  it — plumb,  thou  may'st  be  sure — but 
Dorcas's  message  staggered  me.  And  yet  I  vras  upon  one 
of  my  masterstrokes — which  was,  to  take  advantage  of  the 
captain's  inquiries,  and  to  make  her  own  her  marriage  before 
him,  as  she  had  done  to  the  people  below;  and  if  she  had 
been  brought  to  that,  to  induce  her,  for  her  uncle's  satisfac- 
tion, to  vtTite  him  a  letter  of  gratitude;  which  of  course 
must  have  been  signed  Clarissa  Lovelace.  I  was  loth,  there- 
fore, thou  may'st  believe,  to  attend  her  sudden  commands : 
and  yet,  afraid  of  pushing  matters  beyond  recovery  with  her, 
I  thought  proper  to  lead  him  from  the  question,  to  account 


'^piraii!(;i):i";'iiiii;a!!i 


:;iiii;:ji"iiiiiti!iii;i!ii;i;ii'iiiiii;iiffiiiiiiaiii;iiiiiiiwii!!iiiii!iiiliimiiiiiHi!i™ 

hi iiiii  i    I  iiiiiiiiliiili  ) Mifiijiiiilni  ifi I'liiiiiiiiiU'i,   jiiii^l'uhliiiijiMi 


CHifa/il^iff:  aei. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  271 

for  himself  and  for  Mr,  Harlowe's  coming  at  the  knowledge 
of  where  we  are;  and  for  other  particulars  which  I  knew 
would  engage  her  attention;  and  which  might  possibly  con- 
vince her  of  the  necessity  there  was  for  her  to  acquiesce  in 
the  affirmative  I  was  disposed  to  give.  And  this  for  her 
own  sake;  for  what,  as  I  asked  her  afterwards,  is  it  to  me, 
whether  I  am  ever  reconciled  to  her  family? — A  family, 
Jack,  which  I  must  for  ever  despise. 

You  think.  Captain,  that  I  have  answered  doubtfully  to 
the  question  you  put.  You  may  think  so.  And  you  must 
know  that  I  have  a  good  deal  of  pride;  and  only  that  you 
are  a  gentleman,  and  seem  in  this  affair  to  be  governed  by 
generous  motives,  or  I  should  ill  brook  being  interrogated 
as  to  my  honour  to  a  lady  so  dear  to  me. — But  before  I 
answer  more  directly  to  the  point,  pray  satisfy  me  in  a 
question  or  two  that  I  shall  put  to  you. 

With  all  my  heart,  sir.  Ask  me  what  questions  you  please, 
I  will  answer  them  with  sincerity  and  candour. 

You  say  Mr.  Harlowe  has  found  out  that  we  were  at  a 
play  together :  and  that  we  were  both  in  the  same  lodgings — 
How,  pray,  came  he  at  his  knowledge? — for,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  have,  for  certain  considerations  (not  respecting 
myself,  I  will  assure  you),  condescended  that  our  abode 
should  be  kept  secret.  And  this  has  been  so  strictly 
observed,  that  even  Miss  Howe,  though  she  and  my  beloved 
correspond,  knows  not  directly  where  to  send  to  us. 

WTiy,  sir,  the  person  wiio  saw  you  at  the  play  was  a  tenant 
of  Mr.  John  Harlowe.  He  watched  all  your  motions.  When 
the  play  was  done,  he  followed  your  coach  to  your  lodgings. 
And  early  the  next  day,  Sunday,  he  took  horse,  and  ac- 
quainted his  landlord  with  what  he  had  observed. 

Lovel.  How  oddly  things  come  about ! — But  does  any 
other  of  the  Harlowes  know  where  we  are? 

Capt.  It  is  an  absolute  secret  to  every  other  person  of 
the  family;  and  so  it  is  intended  to  be  kept:  as  also  that 
Mr.  John  Harlowe  is  willing  to  enter  into  treaty  with  you, 
by  me,  if  his  niece  he  actually  married;  for  perhaps  he  is 
aware  that  he  shall  have  difficulty  enough  with  some  people 


272  THE   HISTORY    OF 

to  bring  about  the  desirable  reconciliation^  although  he  could 
give  them  this  assurance. 

I  doubt  it  not.  Captain — to  James  Harlowe  is  all  the 
family  folly  owing. — Fine  fools  [heroically  stalking  al)out^ 
to  be  governed  by  one  to  whom  malice  and  not  genius,  gives 
the  busy  liveliness  that  distinguishes  him  from  a  natural ! 
— But  how  long,  pray,  sir,  has  Mr.  John  Harlowe  been  in 
this  pacific  disposition? 

I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  and  the  occasion;  and  be 
very  explicit  upon  it,  and  upon  all  that  concerns  you  to 
know  of  me,  and  of  the  commission  I  have  undertaken  to 
execute;  and  this  the  rather,  as  when  you  have  heard  me 
out,  you  will  be  satisfied  that  I  am  not  an  officious  man  in 
this  my  present  address  to  you. 

I  am  all  attention,  Captain  Tomlinson. 
And  so  I  douht  not  was  my  beloved. 
Capt.  '  You  must  know,  sir,  that  I  have  not  been  many 
months  in  Mr.  John  Harlowe's  neighbourhood.  I  re- 
moved from  Northamptonshire,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
better  managing  one  or  two  executorships,  which  I  could 
not  avoid  engaging  in  (the  affairs  of  which  frequently  call 
me  to  town,  and  are  part  of  my  present  business) ;  and 
partly  for  the  sake  of  occupying  a  neglected  farm,  which 
has  lately  fallen  into  my  hands.  But  though  an  acquaint- 
ance of  no  longer  standing,  and  that  commencing  on  the 
bowling-green  \uncle  John  is  a  great  howler,  Belford] 
(upon  my  decision  of  a  point  to  every  one's  satisfaction, 
which  was  appealed  to  me  by  all  the  gentlemen,  and  which 
might  have  been  attended  with  bad  consequences),  no  two 
brothers  have  a  more  cordial  esteem  for  each  other.  You 
know,  Mr.  Lovelace,  that  there  is  a  consent,  as  I  may 
call  it,  in  some  minds,  which  will  unite  them  stronger 
together  in  a  few  hours,  than  years  can  do  with  others, 
whom  yet  we  see  not  with  disgust.' 
Lovel.    Very  true.  Captain. 

Capt.  '  It  was  on  the  foot  of  this  avowed  friendship  on 
'  both  sides,  that  on  Monday  the  15th,  as  I  very  well 
'  remember,   Mr.   Harlowe   invited  himself  home  with  me. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  273 

*  And  when  there,  he  acquainted  me  with  the  whole  of  the 

*  unhappy  affair  that  had  made  them  all  so  uneasy.     Till 

*  then  I  knew  it  only  hy  report ;  for,  intimate  as  we  were, 
'  I  forbore  to  speak  of  what  was  so  near  his  heart,  till  he 
'  began  first.     And  then  he  told  me,  that  he  had  had  an 

*  application  made  to  him,  two  or  three  times  before,  by 

*  a  gentleman  whom  he  named,*  to  induce  him  not  only  to 

*  be  reconciled  himself  to  his  niece,  but  to  forward  for  her 

*  a  general  reconciliation.' 

'  A  like  application,  he  told  me,  had  been  made  to  his 

*  sister  Harlowe,  by   a  good   woman,   whom  everybody   re- 

*  spected ;  who  had  intimated  that  his  niece,  if  encouraged, 
'  would  again  put  herself  into  the  protection  of  her  friends, 
'and  leave  you:  but  if  not,  that  she  must  unavoidably  he 

*  yours/ 

I  hope,  Mr.  Lovelace,  I  make  no  mischief. — You  look  con- 
cerned— you  sigh,  sir. 

Proceed,  Captain  Tomlinson.  Pray  proceed. — And  I 
sighed  still  more  profoundly. 

Capt.     '  They  all  thought  it  extremely  particular,  that  a 

*  lady  should  decline  marriage  with  a  man  she  had  so  lately 
'  gone  away  with.' 

Pray,  Captain — pray,  Mr.  Tomlinson — no  more  of  this 
subject.  My  beloved  is  an  angel.  In  everything  unblam- 
able. Whatever  faults  there  have  been,  have  been  theirs 
and  mine.  What  you  would  further  say,  is,  that  the  unfor- 
giving family  rejected  her  application.  They  did.  She 
and  I  had  a  misunderstanding.  The  falling  out  of 
lovers — you  know.  Captain. — We  have  been  happier  ever 
since. 

Capt.  '  Well,  sir ;  but  Mr.  John  Harlowe  could  not  but 
'  better  consider  the  matter  afterwards.  And  he  desired  my 
'advice  how  to  act  in  it.  He  told  me  that  no  father  ever 
'  loved   a   daughter   as  he   loved   this   niece   of   his ;   whom 

*  indeed  he  used  to  call  his  daughter-niece.     He  said  she 

*  had  really  been  unkindly  treated  by  her  brother  and  sister : 

*  and  as  your  alliance,  sir,  was  far  from  being  a  discredit  to 

♦  See  Letters  XVI.  and  XXII.  of  tliis  volume. 


374  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  their  family,  he  would  do  his  endeavour  to  reconcile  all 
'  parties,  if  he  could  be  sure  that  ye  were  actually  man  and 
'  wife.' 

Lovel.     And  what,  pray,  Captain,  was  your  advice? 

Capt.  '  I  gave  it  as  my  opinion,  that  if  his  niece  were 
'  unworthil}^  treated,  and  in  distress  (as  he  apprehended 
'from  the  application  to  him),  he  would  soon  hear  of  her 
'  again :  but  that  it  was  likely,  that  this  application  was 
'  made  without  expecting  it  would  succeed ;  and  as  a  salvo 
■  only,  to  herself,  for  marrying  without  their  consent.  And 
'  the  rather  thought  I  so,  as  he  had  told  me  that  it  came 
'  from  a  young  lady  her  friend,  and  not  in  a  direct  way 
'  from  herself ;  which  young  lady  was  no  favourite  of  the 
'  family ;  and  therefore  would  hardly  have  been  employed, 
'  had  success  been  expected.' 

Lovel.     Very  well.  Captain  Tomlinson — pray  proceed. 

Capt.  '  Here  the  matter  rested  till  last  Sunday  evening, 
'  when  Mr.  John  Harlowe  came  to  me  with  the  man  who 
'  had  seen  you  and  your  lady  (as  I  presume  she  is)  at  the 
'  play ;  and  who  had  assured  him  that  you  both  lodged  in 

*  the  same  house. — And  then  the  application  having  been 

*  so  lately  made,  which  implied  that  you  were  not  then  mar- 
'  ried,  he  was  so  uneasy  for  his  niece's  honour,  that  I  advised 
'  him  to  despatch  to  town  some  one  in  whom  he  could  con- 
'  fide,  to  malce  proper  inquiries.' 

Lovel.  Very  well,  Captain — And  was  such  a  person  em- 
ployed on  such  an  errand  by  her  uncle?  "^ 

Capt.  '  A  trusty  and  discreet  person  was  accordingly 
'sent;  and  last  Tuesda}^  I  think  it  was  (for  he  returned 
'to  us  on  the  Wednesday),  he  made  the  inquiries  among 
'  the  neighbours  first.'  \The  very  inquiry.  Jack,  that  gave 
'  us  all  so  much  uneasiness. *~\  '  But  finding  that  none  of 
'  them  could  give  any  satisfactory  account,  the  lady's  woman 
'  was  come  at,  who  declared  that  you  were  actually  married. 
'  But  the  inquirist  keeping  himself  on  the  reserve  as  to  his 
'  employers,  the  girl  refused  to  tell  the  day,  or  to  give  him 
'  other  particulars.' 

•  See  Letter  XLII.  of  this  volume. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  275 

Lovel.  You  give  a  very  clear  account  of  everything,  Cap- 
tain Tomlinson.     Pray  proceed. 

Capt.  '  The  gentleman  returned :  and,  on  his  report,  Mr. 
'  Harlowe,  having  still  doubts,  and  being  willing  to  proceed 
'  on  some  grounds  in  so  important  a  point,  besought  me 
'  (as  my  affairs  called  me  frequently  to  town)  to  undertake 
*  this  matter.  "  You,  Mr.  Tomlinson,  he  was  pleased  to 
"  say,  have  children  of  your  own :  you  know  the  world : 
"  you  know  what  I  drive  at :  you  will  proceed,  I  am  sure, 
"  with  understanding  and  spirit :  and  whatever  you  are  sat- 
"  isfied  with  shall  satisfy  me." 


Enter  Dorcas  again  in  a  hurry. 

Sir,  the  gentleman  is  impatient. 

I  will  attend  him  presently. 

The  Captain  then  accounted  for  his  not  calling  in  person, 
when  he  had  reason  to  thinlc  us  here. 

He  said  he  had  business  of  consequence  a  few  miles  out 
of  town,  whither  he  thought  he  must  have  gone  yesterday, 
and  having  been  obliged  to  put  off  this  little  journey  till 
this  day,  and  understanding  that  we  were  within,  not  know- 
ing whether  he  should  have  such  another  opportunity,  he 
was  willing  to  try  his  good  fortune  before  he  set  out;  and 
this  made  him  come  booted  and  spurred,  as  I  saw  him. 

He  dropped  a  hint  in  commendation  of  the  people  of  the 
house;  but  it  was  in  such  a  way,  as  to  give  no  room  to 
suspect  that  he  thought  it  necessary  to  inquire  after  the 
character  of  persons,  who  make  so  genteel  an  appearance, 
as  he  observed  they  do. 

And  here  let  me  remark,  that  my  beloved  might  collect 
another  circumstance  in  favour  of  the  people  below,  had 
she  doubted  their  characters,  from  the  silence  of  her  uncle's 
inquirist  on  Tuesday  among  the  neighbours. 

Capt.     '  And  now,  sir.  that  I  believe  I  have  satisfied  you 
'  in  everything  relating  to  my  commission,  I  hope  you  will 
*  permit  me  to  repeat  my  question — which  is — 
Vol.  IV— 20. 


276  THE   HISTORY    OF 


Enter  Dorcas  again,  out  of  breath. 

Sir,  the  gentleman  will  step  up  to  you.  [My  lady  is 
imjmtient.     She  wonders  at  your  honour's  delay.    Aside.~[ 

Excuse  me,  Captain,  for  one  moment. 

I  have  stayed  my  full  time,  Mr.  Lovelace.  What  may 
result  from  my  question  and  your  answer,  whatever  it  shall 
be,  may  take  us  up  time. — And  you  are  engaged.  Will  you 
permit  me  to  attend  you  in  the  morning,  before  I  set  out 
on  my  return? 

You  will  then  breakfast  with  me,  Captain? 

It  must  be  early  if  I  do.  I  must  reach  my  own  house 
to-morrow  night,  or  I  shall  make  the  best  of  wives  unhappy, 
and  I  have  two  or  three  places  to  call  at  in  my  way. 

It  shall  be  by  seven  o'clock,  if  you  please,  Captain.  We 
are  early  folks.  And  this  I  will  tell  you,  that  if  ever  I  am 
reconciled  to  a  family  so  implacable  as  I  have  always  found 
the  Harlowes  to  be,  it  must  be  by  the  mediation  of  so  cool 
and  so  moderate  a  gentleman  as  yourself. 

And  so,  with  the  highest  civilities  on  both  sides,  we  parted. 
But  for  the  private  satisfaction  of  so  good  a  man,  I  left  him 
out  of  doubt  that  we  were  man  and  wife,  though  I  did  not 
directly  aver  it. 


LETTER  LIV. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Sunday  Night. 

This  Captain  Tomlinson  is  one  of  the  happiest  as  well  as 
one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world.  What  would  I  give  to 
stand  as  high  in  my  beloved's  opinion  as  he  does !  but  yet 
I  am  as  good  a  man  as  he,  were  I  to  tell  my  own  story,  and 
have  equal  credit  given  to  it.  But  the  devil  should  have  had 
him  before  I  had  seen  him  on  the  account  he  came  upon, 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  277 

had  I  thought  I  should  not  have  answered  my  principal  end 
in  it.     I  hinted  to  thee  in  my  last  what  that  was. 

But  to  the  particulars  of  the  conference  between  my  fair 
one  and  me,  on  her  hasty  messages;  which  I  was  loth  to 
come  to,  because  she  has  had  a  half  triumph  over  me  in  it. 

After  I  had  attended  the  Captain  down  to  the  very  pas- 
sage, I  returned  to  the  dining-room,  and  put  on  a  joyful 
air,  on  my  beloved's  entrance  into  it — Oh,  my  dearest  crea- 
ture, said  I,  let  me  congratulate  you  on  a  prospect  so  agree- 
able to  your  wishes !  And  I  snatched  her  hand,  and  smoth- 
ered it  with  kisses. 

I  was  going  on;  when  interrupting  me,  You  see,  Mr. 
Lovelace,  said  she,  how  you  have  embarrassed  yourself  by 
your  obliquities !  You  see  that  you  have  not  been  able  to 
return  a  direct  answer  to  a  plain  and  honest  question,  though 
upon  it  depends  all  the  happiness,  on  the  prospect  of  which 
you  congratulate  me ! 

You  know,  my  best  love,  what  my  prudent,  and  I  will 
say,  my  hind  motives  were,  for  giving  out  that  we  were 
married.  You  see  that  I  have  taken  no  advantage  of  it; 
and  that  no  inconvenience  has  followed  it.  You  see  that 
your  uncle  wants  only  to  be  assured  from  ourselves  that  it 
is  so 

Not  another  word  on  this  subject,  Mr.  Lovelace.  I  will 
not  only  risk,  but  I  will  forfeit  the  reconciliation  so  near  my 
heart,  rather  than  I  will  go  on  to  countenance  a  story  so 
untrue ! 

My  dearest  soul — would  you  have  me  appear 

I  would  have  you  appear,  sir,  as  you  are!  I  am  resolved 
that  I  will  appear  to  my  uncle's  friend,  and  to  my  uncle,  as 
I  am. 

For  one  week,  my  dearest  life !  cannot  you  for  one  week 
— only  till  the  settlements 

Kot  for  one  hour,  with  my  own  consent.  You  don't 
know,  sir,  how  much  I  have  been  afflicted,  that  I  have 
appeared  to  the  people  below  what  I  am  not.  But  my  uncle, 
sir,  shall  never  have  it  to  upbraid  me,  nor  will  I  to  upbraid 
myself,  that  I  have  wilfully  passed  upon  him  in  false  lights. 


278  THE   HISTORY    OF 

What,  my  dear,  would  you  have  me  say  to  the  Captain 
to-morrow  morning?     I  have  given  him  room  to  think — 

Then  put  him  right,  Mr.  Lovelace.  Tell  the  truth.  Tell 
him  what  you  please  of  the  favour  of  your  relations  to  me: 
tell  liim  what  you  will  about  the  settlements:  and  if,  when 
drawn,  you  will  submit  them  to  his  perusal  and  approbation, 
it  will  show  him  how  much  you  are  in  earnest. 

My  dearest  life ! — Do  you  think  that  he  would  disapprove 
of  the  terms  I  have  offered  ? 

No. 

Then  may  I  be  accursed,  if  I  willingly  submit  to  be 
trampled  under  foot  by  my  enemies ! 

And  may  I,  Mr.  Lovelace,  never  be  happy  in  this  life, 
if  I  submit  to  the  passing  upon  my  uncle  Harlowe  a  wilful 
and  premeditated  falsehood  for  truth !  I  have  too  long 
laboured  under  the  affliction  which  the  rejection  of  all  my 
friends  has  given  me,  to  purchase  my  reconciliation  with 
them  now  at  so  dear  a  price  as  that  of  my  veracity. 

The  women  below,  my  dear 

What  are  the  women  below  to  me? — I  want  not  to  es- 
tablish myself  with  them.  Need  they  know  all  that  passes 
between  my  relations  and  you  and  me? 

Neither  are  they  anything  to  me,  Madam.  Only  that 
when,  for  the  sake  of  preventing  the^atal  mischiefs  which 
might  have  attended  your  brother's  projects,  I  have  made 
them  think  us  married,  I  would  not  appear  to  them  in  a 
light  which  you  yourself  think  so  shocking.  By  my  soul. 
Madam,  I  had  rather  die  than  contradict  myself  so  flagrantly, 
after  I  have  related  to  them  so  many  circumstances  of  our 
marriage. 

Well,  sir,  the  women  may  believe  what  they  please.  That 
I  have  given  countenance  to  what  you  told  them  is  my 
error.  The  many  circumstances  which  you  own  one  untruth 
has  drawn  you  in  to  relate,  is  a  justification  of  my  refusal  in 
the  present  case. 

Don't  you  see,  Madam,  that  your  uncle  wishes  to  find 
that  we  are  married?  May  not  the  ceremony  be  privately 
over  before  his  mediation  can  take  place? 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  279 

Urge  this  point  no  further,  Mr.  Lovelace.  If  you  will 
not  tell  the  truth,  I  will  to-morrow  morning  (if  I  see  Captain 
Tomlinson)  tell  it  myself.     Indeed  I  will. 

Will  you,  Madam,  consent  that  things  pass  as  before  with 
the  people  below?  This  mediation  of  Tomlinson  maij  come 
to  nothing.  Your  brother's  schemes  may  be  pursued;  the 
rather,  that  now  he  will  know  (perhaps  from  your  uncle) 
that  you  are  not  under  a  legal  protection. — You  will,  at  least 
consent  that  things  pass  here  as  before? 

To  permit  this,  is  to  go  on  in  an  error,  Mr.  Lovelace.  But 
as  the  occasion  for  so  doing  (if  there  can  be  in  your  opinion 
an  occasion  that  will  warrant  an  untruth)  will,  as  I 
presume,  soon  be  over,  I  shall  the  less  dispute  that  point 
with  you.  But  a  new  error  I  will  not  be  guilty  of,  if  I  can 
avoid  it. 

Can  I,  do  you  think,  ]\Iadam,  have  any  dishonourable 
view  in  the  step  I  supposed  you  would  not  scruple  to  take 
towards  a  reconciliation  with  your  own  family?  Not  for 
my  own  sake,  you  know,  did  I  wish  you  to  take  it;  for  what 
is  it  to  me,  if  I  am  never  reconciled  to  your  family  ?  I  want 
no  favours  from  them. 

I  hope,  Mr.  Lovelace,  there  is  no  occasion,  in  our  present 
not  disagreeable  situation,  to  answer  such  a  question.  And 
let  me  say  that  I  shall  think  my  prospects  still  more  agree- 
able, if  to-morrow  morning  you  will  not  only  own  the  very 
truth,  but  give  my  uncle's  friend  such  an  account  of  the 
steps  you  have  taken,  and  are  taking,  as  may  keep  up  my 
uncle's  favourable  intentions  towards  me.  This  you  may 
do  under  what  restrictions  of  secrecy  you  please.  Captain 
Tomlinson  is  a  prudent  man;  a  promoter  of  family  peace, 
you  find ;  and  I  daresay  may  be  made  a  friend. 

I  saw  there  was  no  help.  I  saw  that  the  inflexible  Harlowe 
spirit  was  all  up  in  her. — A  little  witch  ! — A  little — Forgive 
me.  Love,  for  calling  her  names !  And  so  I  said,  with  an 
air.  We  have  had  too  many  misunderstandings,  Madam,  for 
me  to  wish  for  new  ones:  I  will  obey  you  without  reserve. 
Had  I  not  thought  I  should  have  obliged  you  by  the  other 
method   (especially  as  the  ceremony  might  have  been  over 


280  THE   HISTORY    OF 

before  anything  could  have  operated  from  your  uncle's  in- 
tentions, and  of  consequence  no  untruth  persisted  in),  I 
would  not  have  proposed  it.  But  think  not,  my  beloved 
creature,  that  you  shall  enjoy,  without  condition,  this  triumph 
over  my  judgment. 

And  then,  clasping  my  arms  about  her,  I  gave  her  averted 
cheek  (her  charming  lip  designed)  a  fervent  kiss. — And 
your  forgiveness  of  his  sweet  freedom  [bowing]  is  that 
condition. 

She  was  not  mortally  offended.  And  now  must  I  make 
out  the  rest  as  well  as  I  can.  But  this  I  will  tell  thee,  that 
although  her  triumph  has  not  diminished  my  love  for  her, 
yet  it  has  stimulated  me  more  than  ever  to  revenge,  as  thou 
wilt  be  apt  to  call  it.  But  victory,  or  conquest,  is  the  more 
proper  word. 

There  is  a  pleasure,  'tis  true,  in  subduing  one  of  these 
watchful  beauties.  But  by  my  soul,  Belford,  men  of  our 
cast  take  twenty  times  the  pains  to  be  rogues  that  it  would 
cost  them  to  be  honest;  and  dearly,  with  the  sweat  of  our 
brows,  and  to  the  puzzling  of  our  brains  (to  say  nothing  of 
the  hazards  we  run),  do  we  earn  our  purchase;  and  ought 
not  therefore  to  be  grudged  our  success  when  me  meet  with 
it — especially  as,  when  we  have  obtained  our  end,  satiety 
soon  follows;  and  leaves  us  little  or  nothing  to  show  for  it. 
But  this,  indeed,  may  be  said  of  all  worldly  delights. — And 
is  not  that  a  grave  reflection  from  me? 

I  was  willing  to  write  up  to  the  time.  Although  I  have 
not  carried  my  principal  point,  I  shall  make  something  turn 
out  in  my  favour  from  Captain  Tomlinson's  errand.  But 
let  me  give  thee  this  caution;  that  thou  do  not  pretend  to 
judge  of  my  devices  by  parts;  but  have  patience  till  thou 
seest  the  whole.  But  once  more  I  swear,  that  I  will  not  be 
out-Norrised  by  a  pair  of  novices.  And  yet  I  am  very 
apprehensive,  at  times,  of  the  consequences  of  Miss  Howe's 
smuggling  scheme. 

My  conscience,  I  should  think,  ought  not  to  reproach  me 
for  a  contrivance  which  is  justified  by  the  contrivances  of 
two  such  girls  as  these:  one  of  whom   (the  more  excellent 


CLARISSA   IIARLOWE.  281 

of  the  two)  I  have  always,  with  her  own  approbation,  as  I 
imagine,  proposed  for  my  imitation. 

But  here,  Jack,  is  the  thing  that  concludes  me,  and  cases 
my  heart  with  adamant:  I  find,  by  Miss  Howe's  letters, 
that  it  is  owing  to  her  that  I  have  made  no  greater  progress 
with  my  blooming  fair  one.  She  loves  me.  The  ipecac- 
uanha contrivance  convinces  me  that  she  loves  me.  Where 
there  is  love  there  must  be  confidence,  or  a  desire  of  having 
reason  to  confide.  Generosity,  founded  on  my  supposed 
generosity,  has  taken  hold  of  her  heart.  Shall  I  not  now 
see  (since  I  must  be  for  ever  unhappy,  if  I  marry  her,  and 
leave  any  trial  unessayed)  what  I  can  make  of  her  love,  and 
her  newly-raised  confidence? — Will  it  not  be  to  my  glory  to 
succeed?  And  to  hers  and  to  the  honour  of  her  sex,  if  I 
cannot? — Where  then  will  be  the  hurt  to  either  to  make 
the  trial?  And  cannot  I,  as  I  have  often  said,  reward  her 
when  I  will  by  marriage? 

'Tis  late,  or  rather  early;  for  the  day  begins  to  dawn 
upon  me.  I  am  plaguy  heavy.  Perhaps  I  need  not  to 
have  told  thee  that.  But  will  only  indulge  a  doze  in  my 
chair  for  an  hour;  then  shake  myself,  wash  and  refresh. 
At  my  time  of  life,  with  such  a  constitution  as  I  am  blessed 
with,  that's  all  that's  wanted. 

Good-night  to  me ! — It  cannot  be  broad  day  till  I  am 
awake. — Aw-w-w-whaugh — pox  of  this  yawning! 

Is  not  thy  uncle  dead  yet? 

What's  come  to  mine,  that  he  writes  not  to  my  last? — 
Hunting  after  more  wisdom  of  nations^  I  suppose! — Yaw- 
yaw-yawning  again ! — Pen,  begone ! 


283  TEE   HISTORY    OF 


LETTER  LV. 


Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday,   May   29. 

Now  have  I  established  myself  forever  in  my  charmer's 
heart. 

The  Captain  came  at  seven,  as  promised,  and  ready 
equipped  for  his  journey.  My  beloved  chose  not  to  give  us 
her  company  till  our  first  conversation  was  over — ashamed, 
I  suppose,  to  be  present  at  that  part  of  it  which  was  to 
restore  her  to  her  virgin  state  by  my  confession,  after  her 
wifehood  had  been  reported  to  her  uncle.  But  she  took  her 
cue,  nevertheless,  and  listened  to  all  that  passed. 

The  modestest  women.  Jack,  must  think,  and  think  deeply 
sometimes.  I  wonder  whether  they  ever  blush  at  those 
things  by  themselves,  at  which  they  have  so  charming  a 
knack  of  blushing  in  company.  If  not;  and  if  blushing  be 
a  sign  of  grace  or  modesty;  have  not  the  sex  as  great  a 
command  over  their  blushes  as  they  are  said  to  have  over 
their  tear^  ?  This  reflection  would  lead  me  a  arreat  wav  into 
female  minds,  were  I  disposed  to  pursue  it. 

I  told  the  Captain  that  I  would  prevent  his  question; 
and  accordingly  (after  I  had  enjoined  the  strictest  secrecy, 
that  no  advantage  might  be  given  to  James  Harlowe,  and 
which  he  answered  for  as  well  on  Mr.  Harlowe's  part  as 
his  own)  I  acknowledged  nakedly  and  fairly  the  whole  truth 
— to  wit,  '  That  we  were  not  yet  married.  I  gave  him  hints 
'  of  the  causes  of  procrastination.  Some  of  them  owing  to 
'  unhappy  misunderstandings :  but  chiefly  to  the  lady's  de- 
'  sire  of  previous  reconciliation  with  her  friends ;  and  to  a 
'  delicacy  that  had  no  example.' 

Less  nice  ladies  than  this.  Jack,  love  to  have  delays,  wilful 
and  studied  delays,  imputed  to  them  in  these  cases — yet  are 
indelicate  in  their  affected  delicacy.  For  do  they  not 
thereby  tacitly  confess  that  they  expect  to  be  the  greatest 
gainers  in  wedlock :  and  that  there  is  self-denial  in  the  pride 
they  take  in  delaying? 


CLARISSA   HABLOWE.  283 

'  I  told  him  the  reason  of  our  passing  to  the  people  below 
as  married — yet  as  under  a  vow  of  restriction,  as  to  con- 
summation, which  had  kept  us  both  to  the  height,  one  of 
forhearing,  the  other  of  vigilant  punctilio;  even  to  the  denial 
of  those  innocent  freedoms  which  betrothed  lovers  never 
scruple  to  allow  and  to  take. 

'  I  then  communicated  to  him  a  copy  of  my  proposal  of 
settlement;  the  substance  of  her  written  answer;  the  con- 
tents of  my  letter  of  invitation  to  Lord  M.  to  be  her  nuptial- 
father;  and  of  my  Lord's  generous  reply.  But  said  that 
having  apprehensions  of  delay  from  his  infirmities,  and 
my  beloved  choosing  by  all  means  (and  that  from  prin- 
ciples of  unrequited  duty)  a  private  solemnisation,  I  had 
written  to  excuse  his  Lordship's  presence;  and  expected 
an  answer  every  hour. 

'  The  settlements,  I  told  him,  were  actually  drawing  by 
Counsellor  Williams,  of  whose  eminence  he  must  have 
heard  ' 

'  He  had. 

'  And  of  the  truth  of  this  he  might  satisfy  himself  before 
'  he  went  out  of  town. 

"  When  these  were  drawn,  approved,  and  engrossed,  noth- 
'  ing,  I  said,  but  signing,  and  the  nomination  of  my  happy 

*  day,  would  be  wanting.  I  had  a  pride,  I  declared,  in 
'  doing  the  highest  justice  to  so  beloved  a  creature,  of  my 
'  own   voluntary   motion,   and   without   the   intervention   of 

*  a  family  from  whom  I  had  received  the  greatest  insults. 

*  And  this  being  our  present  situation,  I  was  contented  that 
'  Mr.  John  Harlowe  should  suspend  his  reconciliatory  pur- 
'  poses  till  our  marriage  were  actually  solemnised.' 

The  Captain  was  highly  delighted  with  all  I  said:  yet 
owned  that  as  his  dear  friend  Mr.  Harlowe  had  expressed 
himself  greatly  pleased  to  hear  that  we  were  actually  married, 
he  could  have  wished  it  had  been  so.  But,  nevertheless,  he 
doubted  not  that  all  would  be  well. 

He  saw  my  reasons,  he  said,  and  approved  of  them,  for 
making  the  gentlewomen  below  [whom  again  he  understood 
to  he  good  sort  of  peopW]   believe  that  the  ceremony  had 


284  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

passed;  which  so  well  accounted  for  what  the  lady's  maid 
had  told  Mr.  Harlowe's  friend.  Mr.  James  Harlowe,  he 
said,  had  certainly  ends  to  answer  in  keeping  open  the 
breach;  and  as  certainly  had  formed  a  design  to  get  his 
sister  out  of  my  hands.  Wherefore  it  as  much  imported  his 
worthy  friend  to  keep  this  treaty  a  secret  as  it  did  me;  at 
least  till  he  had  formed  his  party,  and  taken  his  measures. 
Ill  will  and  passion  were  dreadful  misrepresenters.  It  was 
amazing  to  him,  that  animosity  could  be  carried  so  high 
against  a  man  capable  of  views  so  pacific  and  so  honourable, 
and  who  had  shown  such  a  command  of  his  temper,  in  this 
whole  transaction,  as  I  had  done.  Generosity,  indeed,  in 
every  case,  where  love  of  stratagem  and  intrigue  (I  would 
excuse  him)  were  not  concerned,  was  a  part  of  my  character. 

He  was  proceeding,  when,  breakfast  being  ready,  in  came 
the  empress  of  my  heart,  irradiating  all  around  her,  as  with 
a  glory — a  benignity  and  graciousness  in  her  aspect,  that, 
though  natural  to  it,  had  been  long  banished  from  it. 

Next  to  prostration  lowly  bowed  the  Captain,  Oh,  how 
the  sweet  creature  smiled  her  approbation  of  him !  Eeverence 
from  one  begets  reverence  from  another.  Men  are  more  of 
monkeys  in  imitation  than  they  think  themselves. — Involun- 
tarily, in  a  manner,  I  bent  my  knee — My  dearest  life — and 
made  a  very  fine  speech  on  presenting  the  Captain  to  her. 
No  title  myself,  to  her  lip  or  cheek,  '  tis  well  he  attempted 
not  either.  He  was  indeed  ready  to  worship  her; — could 
only  touch  her  charming  hand. 

I  have  told  the  Captain,  my  dear  creature — and  then  I 
briefly  repeated  (as  if  I  had  supposed  she  had  not  heard  it) 
all  I  had  told  him. 

He  was  astonished  that  anybody  could  be  displeased  one 
moment  with  such  an  angel.  He  undertook  her  cause  as 
the  highest  degree  of  merit  to  himself. 

Never,  I  must  need  say,  did  the  angel  so  much  looTc  the 
angel.  All  placid,  serene,  smiling,  self-assured:  a  more 
lovely  flush  than  usual  heightening  her  natural  graces,  and 
adding  charms,  even  to  radiance,  to  her  charming  com- 
plexion. 


CLARISSA   HARLOV^E.  285 

After  we  had  seated  ourselves,  the  agreeable  subject  was 
renewed,  as  we  took  our  chocolate.  How  happy  should  she 
be  in  her  uncle's  restored  favour! 

The  Captain  engaged  for  it — No  more  delays,  he  hoped, 
on  her  part !  Let  the  happy  day  be  but  once  over,  all  would 
then  be  right.  But  was  it  improper  to  ask  for  copies  of  my 
proposals,  and  of  her  answer,  in  order  to  show  them  to  his 
dear  friend,  her  uncle? 

As  Mr.  Lovelace  pleased. — Oh,  that  the  dear  creature 
would  always  say  so ! 

It  must  be  in  strict  confidence  then,  I  said.  But  would 
it  not  be  better  to  show  her  uncle  the  draught  of  the  settle- 
ments, when  drawn? 

And  will  you  he  so  good  as  to  allow  of  this,  Mr.  Lovelace? 

There,  Belford!  We  were  once  the  quarrelsome,  but  now 
we  are  the  polite  lovers. 

Indeed,  my  dear  creature,  I  will,  if  you  desire  it,  and  if 
Captain  Tomlinson  will  engage  that  Mr.  Harlowe  shall  keep 
them  absolutely  a  secret;  that  I  may  not  be  subjected  to  the 
cavil  and  control  of  any  others  of  a  family  that  have  used 
me  so  very  ill. 

Now,  indeed,  sir,  you  are  very  obliging. 

Dost  think.  Jack,  that  my  face  did  not  now  also  shine? 

I  held  out  my  hand  (first  consecrating  it  with  a  kiss),  for 
hers.  She  condescended  to  give  it  me.  1  pressed  it  to  my 
lips:  You  know  not,  Captain  Tomlinson  (with  an  air),  all 
storms  overblown,  what  a  happy  man 

Charming  couple!  [his  hands  lifted  up]  how  will  my 
good  friend  rejoice!  Oh,  that  he  were  present!  You  know 
not,  Madam,  how  dear  you  still  are  to  your  uncle  Harlowe! 

I  am  unhappy  ever  to  have  disobliged  him ! 

Not  too  much  of  that,  however,  fairest,  thought  I! 

The  Captain  repeated  his  resolutions  of  service,  and  that 
in  so  acceptable  a  manner,  that  the  dear  creature  wished 
that  neither  he,  nor  any  of  his,  might  ever  want  a  friend  of 
equal  benevolence. 

Nor  any  of  his,  she  said;  for  the  Captain  brought  it  in 
that  he  had  five  children  living,  by  one  of  the  best  wives  and 


286  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

mothers,  whose  excellent  management  made  him  as  happy 
as  if  his  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year  (which  was  all  he 
had  to  boast  of)  were  two  thousand. 

Without  economy,  the  oraculous  lady  said,  no  estate  was 
large  enough.     With  it,  the  least  was  not  too  small. 

Lie  still,  teasing  villain!  lie  still. — I  was  only  speaking  to 
my  conscience.  Jack. 

And  let  me  ask  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  the  Captain; 
yet  not  so  much  from  doubt,  as  that  I  may  proceed  upon 
sure  grounds — You  are  willing  to  co-operate  with  my  dear 
friend  in  a  general  reconciliation? 

Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Tomlinson,  that  if  it  can  be  dis- 
tinguished that  my  readiness  to  make  up  with  a  family,  of 
whose  generosity  I  have  not  had  reason  to  think  highly,  is 
entirely  owing  to  the  value  I  have  for  this  angel  of  a  woman, 
I  will  not  only  co-operate  with  Mr.  John  Harlowe,  as  you 
ask;  but  I  will  meet  Mr.  James  Harlowe,  senior,  and  his 
lady,  all  the  way.  And  furthermore,  to  make  the  son  James 
and  his  sister  Arabella  quite  easy,  I  will  absolutely  disclaim 
any  further  interest,  whether  living  or  dying,  in  any  of  the 
three  brothers'  estates;  contenting  myself  with  what  my 
beloved's  grandfather  has  bequeathed  to  her:  for  I  have 
reason  to  be  abundantly  satisfied  with  my  own  circumstances 
and  prospects — enough  rewarded,  were  she  not  to  bring  a 
shilling  in  dowry,  in  a  woman  who  has  merit  superior  to 
all  the  goods  of  fortune. — True  as  the  Gospel,  Belf ord ! — ■ 
Why  had  not  this  scene  a  real  foundation? 

The  dear  creature,  by  her  eyes,  expressed  her  gratitude, 
before  her  lips  could  utter  it.  0  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  she — 
you  have  infinitely and  there  she  stopped. 

The  Captain  run  over  in  my  praise.  He  was  really  af- 
fected. 

Oh,  that  I  had  not  such  a  mixture  of  revenge  and  pride  in 
my  love,  thought  I ! — But  (my  old  plea)  cannot  I  make  her 
amends  at  any  time?  And  is  not  her  virtue  now  in  the 
height  of  its  probation? — Would  she  lay  aside,  like  the 
friends  of  my  uncontending  Eosebud,  all  thoughts  of  defiance 
— would  she  throw  herself  upon  my  mercy,  and  try  me  but 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  287 

one  fortnight  in  the  life  of  honour — What  then? — I  cannot 
say,  what  then — 

Do  you  despise  me,  Jack,  for  my  inconsistency — in  no 
two  letters  perhaps  agreeing  with  myself. — AVho  expects  con- 
sistency in  men  of  our  character? — But  I  am  mad  with  " 
love — fired  by  revenge — puzzled  with  my  own  devices — my 
invention  is  my  curse — my  pride  my  punishment — drawn 
five  or  six  ways  at  once,  can  she  possibly  be  so  unhappy  as 
jf — Oh  why,  why,  was  this  woman  so  divinely  excellent! — ■ 
Yet  how  know  I  that  she  is?  What  have  been  her  trials? 
Have  I  had  the  courage  to  make  a  single  one  upon  her 
person,  though  a  thousand  upon  her  temper? — Enow,  I 
hope,  to  make  her  afraid  of  ever  disobliging  me  more ! 

I  MUST  banish  reflection,  or  I  am  a  lost  man.  For  these 
two  hours  past  have  I  hated  myself  for  my  own  contri- 
vances. And  this  not  only  from  what  I  have  related  to  thee ; 
but  from  what  I  have  further  to  relate.  But  I  have  now  "^ 
once  more  steeled  my  heart.  My  vengeance  is  uppermost; 
for  I  have  leen  reperusing  some  of  Miss  Howe's  virulence. 
The  contempt  they  have  both  held  me  in  I  cannot  bear. 

The  happiest  breakfast-time,  my  beloved  owned,  that  she 
had  ever  known  since  she  had  left  her  father's  house.  [She 
might  have  let  this  alone.]  The  Captain  renewed  all  his 
protestations  of  service.  He  would  write  me  word  how  his 
dear  friend  received  the  account  he  should  give  him  of 
the  happy  situation  of  our  affairs,  and  what  he  thought  of 
the  settlements,  as  soon  as  I  should  send  him  the  draughts 
so  kindly  promised.  And  we  parted  with  great  professions 
of  mutual  esteem;  my  beloved  putting  up  vows  for  the 
success  of  his  genero^is  mediation. 

When  I  returned  from  attending  the  Captain  downstairs, 
which  I  did  to  the  outward  door,  my  beloved  met  me  as  I 
entered  the  dining-room;  complacency  reigning  in  every 
lovely  feature. 

'  You  see  me  already,'  said  she,  '  another  creature.  You 
*  know  not,  Mr.  Lovelace,  how  near  my  heart  this  hoped-for 
'  reconciliation  is.     I  am  now  willing  to  banish  every  dis- 


288  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  agreeable  remembrance.  You  know  not,  sir,  how  much 
'  you  have  obliged  me.  And  oh,  Mr.  Lovelace,  how  happy 
'  shall  I  be,  when  my  heart  is  lightened  from  the  all-sinking 
'  weight  of  a  father's  curse !  When  my  dear  mamma — you 
'  don't  know,  sir,  half  the  excellences  of  my  dear  mamma ! 
'  and  what  a  kind  heart  she  has,  when  it  is  left  to  follow  its 
'  own  impulses — when  this  blessed  mamma  shall  once  more 
'  fold  me  to  her  indulgent  bosom !  A¥hen  I  shall  again  have 
'  uncles  and  aunts,  and  a  brother  and  sister,  all  striving  who 
'  shall  show  most  kindness  and  favour  to  the  poor  outcast, 
'  then  no  more  an  outcast — And  you,  Mr.  Lovelace,  to  be- 

*  hold  all  this,  and  to  be  received  into  a  family  so  dear  to 
'  me,   with   welcome — What  though  a   little   cold  at   first  ? 

*  When  they  come  to  know  you  better,  and  to  see  you  oftener, 
'  no  fresh  causes  of  disgust  occurring,  and  you,  as  I  hope, 
'  having  entered  upon  a  new  course,  all  will  be  warmer 
'  and  warmer  love  on  both  sides,  till  every  one  will  perhaps 
'  wonder  how  they  came  to  set  themselves  against  you.' 

Then  drying  her  tears  with  her  handkerchief,  after  a  few 
moments  pausing,  on  a  sudden,  as  if  recollecting  that  she 
had  been  led  by  her  joy  to  an  expression  of  it  which  she 
had  not  intended  I  should  see,  she  retired  to  her  chamber 
with  precipitation;  leaving  me  almost  as  unable  to  stand 
it  as  herself. 

In  short,  I  was — I  want  words  to  say  how  I  was — my 
nose  had  been  made  to  tingle  before;  my  eyes  have  before 
been  made  to  glisten  by  this  soul-moving  beauty;  but  so 
very  much  affected,  I  never  was — for,  trying  to  check  my 
sensibility,  it  was  too  strong  for  me,  and  I  even  sobbed — 
Yes,  by  my  soul,  I  audibly  sobbed,  and  was  forced  to 
turn  from  her  before  she  had  well  finished  her  affecting 
speech. 

I  want,  methinks,  now  I  have  owned  the  odd  sensation, 
to  describe  it  to  thee — the  thing  was  so  strange  to  me — 
something  choking,  as  it  were,  in  my  throat — I  know  not 
how — yet,  I  must  needs  say,  though  I  am  out  of  countenance 
upon  the  recollection,  that  there  was  something  very  pretty 
in  it;  and  I  wish  I  could  know  it  again,  that  I  might  have 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  289 

a  more  perfect  idea  of  it,  and  be  better  able  to  describe  it 
to  thee. 

But  this  effect  of  her  joy  on  such  an  occasion  gives  me  a 
high  notion  of  what  that  virtue  must  be  [What  other  name 
can  I  call  it?],  vs^hich  in  a  mind  so  capable  of  delicate  trans- 
port, should  be  able  to  make  so  charming  a  creature,  in 
her  very  bloom,  all  frost  and  snow  to  every  advance  of  love 
from  the  man  she  hates  not.  This  must  be  all  from  educa- 
tion too — must  it  not,  Belf  ord  ?  Can  education  have  stronger 
force  in  a  woman's  heart  than  nature  ? — Sure  it  cannot.  But 
if  it  can,  how  entirely  right  are  parents  to  cultivate  their 
daughters'  minds,  and  to  inspire  them  with  notions  of  reserve 
and  distance  to  our  sex;  and  indeed  to  make  them  think 
highly  of  their  own!  for  pride  is  an  excellent  substitute,  let 
me  tell  thee,  where  virtue  sliines  not  out,  as  the  sun,  in  its 
own  unborrowed  lustre. 


LETTER  LVI. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belf  ord,  Esq. 

And  now  it  is  time  to  confess  (and  yet  I  know  that  thy 
conjectures  are  aforehand  with  my  exposition)  that  this 
Captain  Tomlinson,  who  is  so  great  a  favourite  with  my 
charmer,  and  who  takes  so  much  delight  in  healing  breaches, 
and  reconciling  differences,  is  neither  a  greater  man  nor  a 
less  than  honest  Patrick  M'Donald,  attended  by  a  discarded 
footman  of  his  own  finding  out. 

Thou  knowest  what  a  various-lifed  rascal  he  is;  and  to 
what  better  hopes  born  and  educated.  But  that  ingenious 
knack  of  forgery,  for  which  he  was  expelled  the  Dublin 
University,  and  a  detection  since  in  evidenceship,  have  been 
his  ruin.  For  these  have  thrown,  him  from  one  country  to 
another;  and  at  last  into  the  way  of  life  which  would  make 
him  a  fit  husband  for  Miss  Howe's  Townsend  with  her  con- 
trabands.    He  is,  thou  knowest,  admirably  qualified  for  any 


290  THE   HISTORY    OF 

enterprise  that  requires  adroitness  and  solemnity.  And  can 
there,  after  all,  be  a  higher  piece  of  justice,  than  to  keep 
one  smuggler  in  readiness  to  play  against  another? 

'Well,  but,  Lovelace  (methinks  thou  questionest),  how 
'  earnest  thou  to  venture  upon  such  a  contrivance  as  this, 
'  when,  as  thou  hast  told  me,  the  lady  used  to  be  a  month 
'  at  a  time  at  this  uncle's ;  and  must  therefore,  in  all  prob- 
'  ability,  know  that  there  was  not  a  Captain  Tomlinson  in 
'  all  the  neighbourhood,  at  least  no  one  of  the  name  so  in- 
'  timate  with  him  as  this  man  pretends  to  be  ? ' 

This  objection,  Jack,  is  so  natural  a  one,  that  I  could  not 
help  observing  to  my  charmer  that  she  must  surely  have 
heard  her  uncle  speak  of  this  gentleman.  No,  she  said,  she 
never  had.  Besides  she  had  not  been  at  her  uncle  Harlowe's 
for  near  ten  months  [this  I  had  heard  her  say  before]  :  and 
there  were  several  gentlemen  who  used  the  same  green, 
whom  she  knew  not. 

We  are  all  very  ready,  thou  knowest,  to  believe  what  she 
likes. 

And  what  was  the  reason,  thinkest  thou,  that  she  had 
not  been  of  so  long  a  time  at  this  uncle's? — Why,  this  old 
sinner,  who  imagines  himself  entitled  to  call  me  to  account 
for  my  freedoms  with  the  sex,  has  lately  fallen  into  familiari- 
u  ties,  as  it  is  suspected,  with  his  housekeeper;  who  assumes 
airs  upon  it. — A  cursed  deluding  sex ! — In  youth,  middle 
age,  or  dotage,  they  take  us  all  in. 

Dost  thou  not  see,  however,  that  this  housekeeper  knows 
nothing,  nor  is  to  know  anything,  of  the  treaty  of  reconcilia- 
tion designed  to  be  set  on  foot ;  and  therefore  the  uncle  always 
comes  to  the  Captain,  the  Captain  goes  not  to  the  uncle? 
And  this  I  surmised  to  the  lady.  And  then  it  was  a  natural 
suggestion  that  the  Captain  was  the  rather  applied  to,  as  he 
is  a  stranger  to  the  rest  of  the  family.  Need  I  tell  ihee  the 
meaning  of  all  this?  ^ 

But  this  intrigue  of  the  ancient  is  a  piece  of  private  his- 
tory, the  truth  of  which  my  beloved  cares  not  to  own,  and 
indeed  affects  to  disbelieve:  as  she  does  also  some  puisny 
gallantries  of  her  foolish  brother;  which,  by  way  of  recrim- 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  291 

ination,  I  have  hinted  at,  without  naming  my  informant  in 
their  family. 

*  Well  but,  methinks,  thou  questionest  again,  Is  it  not 
'  probable  that  Miss  Howe  will  make  inquiry  after  such  a 
'  man  as  Tomlinson  ? — And  when  she  cannot ' 

I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say — but  I  have  no  doubt  that 
Wilson  will  be  so  good,  if  I  desire  it,  as  to  give  into  my 
own  hands  any  letter  that  may  be  brought  by  Collins  to 
his  house,  for  a  week  to  come.  And  now  I  hope  thou  art 
satisfied. 

I  will  conclude  with  a  short  story. 

'  Two  neighbouring  sovereigns  were  at  war  together,  about 
'  some  pitiful  chuck-farthing  thing  or  other;  no  matter  what; 
'  for  the  least  trifles  will  set  princes  and  children  at  log- 
'  gerheads.  Their  armies  had  been  drawn  up  in  battalia 
'  some  days,  and  the  news  of  a  decisive  action  was  expected 
'  every  hour  to  arrive  at  each  court.  At  last,  issue  was  joined ; 
'  a  bloody  battle  was  fought ;  and  a  fellow  who  had  been  a 
'  spectator  of  it,  arriving,  with  the  news  of  a  complete  vic- 

*  tory,  at  the  capital  of  one  of  the  princes  some  time  before 

*  the  appointed  couriers,  the  bells  were  set  aringing,  bonfires 
'  and  illuminations  were  made,  and  the  people  went  to  bed 

*  intoxicated  with  joy  and  good  liquor.     But  the  next  day 

*  all  was  reversed :  the  victorious  enemy,  pursuing  his  ad- 

*  vantage,  was  expected  every  hour  at  the  gates  of  the  almost 
'  defenceless  capital.    The  first  reporter  was  hereupon  sought 

*  for,  and  found ;  and  being  questioned,  pleaded  a  great  deal 
'  of  merit,  in  that  he  had,  in  so  dismal  a  situation,  taken 
'  such  a  space  of  time  from  the  distress  of  his  fellow-citizens, 
'  and  given  it  to  festivity,  as  were  the  hours  between  the  false 

*  good  news  and  the  real  bad.' 

Do  thou,  Belford,  make  the  application.  This  I  know, 
that  I  have  given  greater  joy  to  my  beloved  than  she  had 
thought  would  so  soon  fall  to  her  share.  And  as  the  human 
life  is  properly  said  to  be  checquer-work,  no  doubt  but  a 
person  of  her  prudence  will  make  the  best  of  it,  and  set  off 
so  much  good  against  so  much  bad,  in  order  to  strike  as 
just  a  balance  as  possible. 
Vol.  IV— 21. 


292  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

[The  lady,  in  three  several  letters,  acquaints  her  friend  with 
the  most  material  passages  and  conversations  contained 
in  those  of  Mr.  Lovelace  preceding.  These  are  her  words, 
on  relating  what  the  commission  of  the  pretended  Tom- 
linson  was,  after  the  apprehensions  that  his  distant  inquiry 
had  given  her :] 

At  last,  my  dear,  all  these  doubts  and  fears  were  cleared 
up  and  banished;  and,  in  their  place,  a  delightful  prospect 
was  opened  to  me.  For  it  comes  happily  out  (but  at  pres- 
ent it  must  be  an  absolute  secret,  for  reasons  which  I  shall 
mention  in  the  sequel)  that  the  gentleman  was  sent  by  my 
uncle  Harlowe  [I  thought  he  could  not  be  angry  with  me 
for  ever]  :  all  owing  to  the  conversation  that  passed  between 
your  good  Mr.  Hickman  and  him.  For  although  Mr.  Hick- 
man's application  was  too  harshly  rejected  at  the  time,  my 
uncle  could  not  but  think  better  of  it  afterwards,  and  of  the 
arguments  that  worthy  gentleman  used  in  my  favour. 

Who,  upon  a  passionate  repulse,  would  despair  of  having 
a  reasonable  request  granted? — Who  would  not,  by  gentle- 
ness and  condescension,  endeavour  to  leave  favourable  im- 
pressions upon  an  angry  mind;  which,  when  it  comes  coolly 
to  reflect,  may  induce  it  to  work  itself  into  a  condescending 
temper?  To  request  a  favour,  as  I  have  often  said,  is  one 
thing;  to  challenge  it  as  our  due,  is  another.  And  what 
right  has  a  petitioner  to  be  angry  at  a  repulse,  if  he  has  not 
a  right  to  demand  what  he  sues  for  as  a  debt? 

[She  describes  Captain  Tomlinson,  on  his  breakfast  visit, 
to  be  a  grave,  good  sort  of  a  man.  And  in  another  place, 
a  genteel  man  of  great  gravity,  and  a  good  aspect;  she  be- 
lieves upwards  of  fifty  years  of  age.  '  I  liled  Mm,'  says 
she,  '  as  soon  as  I  saw  him.' 

As  her  prospects  are  now,  as  she  says,  more  favourable  than 
heretofore,  she  wishes  that  her  hopes  of  Mr.  Lovelace's 
so  often  promised  reformation  were  better  grounded  than 
she  is  afraid  they  can  &e.] 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  293 

We  have  both  been  extremely  puzzled,  my  dear,  says  she, 
to  reconcile  some  parts  of  Mr.  Lovelace's  character  with 
other  parts  of  it :  his  good  with  his  bad ;  such  of  the  former, 
in  particular,  as  his  generosity  to  his  tenants;  his  bounty  to 
the  innkeeper's  daughter;  his  readiness  to  put  me  upon 
doing  kind  things  by  my  good  Norton,  and  others. 

A  strange  mixture  in  his  mind,  as  I  have  told  him !  for  he 
is  certainly  (as  I  have  reason  to  say,  looking  back  upon  his 
past  behaviour  to  me  in  twenty  instances)  a  hard-hearted 
man. — Indeed,  my  dear,  /  have  thought  more  than  once  that 
he  had  rather  see  me  in  tears  than  give  me  reason  to  be  pleased 
with  him. 

My  cousin  Morden  says  that  free  livers  are  remorseless.* 
And  so  they  must  be  in  the  very  nature  of  things. 

Mr.  Lovelace  is  a  proud  man.  We  have  both  long  ago 
observed  that  he  is.  And  I  am  truly  afraid  that  his  very 
generosity  is  more  owing  to  his  /jncie  and  his  vanity,  than 
that  phiIa7ithropy  (shall  I  call  it?)  which  distinguishes  a 
beneficent  mind. 

Money  he  values  not,  but  as  a  mean  to  support  his  pride 
and  his  independence.  And  it  is  easy,  as  I  have  often 
thought,  for  a  person  to  part  with  a  secondary  appetite,  when, 
by  so  doing,  he  can  promote  or  gratify  a  first. 

I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  there  must  have  been  some 
fault  in  his  education.  His  natural  bias  was  not,  I  fancy, 
sufficiently  attended  to.  He  was  instructed  perhaps  (as  his 
power  was  likely  to  be  large)  to  do  good  and  beneficent 
actions;  but  not,  I  doubt,  from  proper  motives. 

If  he  had,  his  generosity  would  not  have  stopt  at  pride, 
but  would  have  struck  into  humanity;  and  then  would  he 
not  have  contented  himself  with  doing  praiseworthy  things 
by  fits  and  starts,  or,  as  if  relying  on  the  doctrine  of  merits, 
he  hoped  by  a  good  action  to  atone  for  a  bad  one;f  but  he 

*  See  Letter  XII.  of  this  volume.  See  also  Mr.  Lovelace's  own 
confession  of  the  delight  he  takes  in  a  woman's  tears,  in  different 
parts  of  his  letters. 

f  That  the  lady  judges  rightly  of  him  in  this  place,  see  Vol.  I. 
Letter  XXXIV.  where,  giving  the  motive  for  his  generosity  to  his 


294  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

would  have  been  uniformly  noble,  and  done  the  good  for 
its  own  sake. 

Oh,  my  dear !  what  a  lot  have  I  drawn !  pride,  this  poor 
man's  virtue;  and  revenge,  his  other  predominating  quality. 
— This  one  consolation,  however,  remains: — he  is  not  an 
infidel,  and  unbeliever:  had  he  been  an  infidel,  there  would 
have  been  no  room  at  all  for  hope  of  him  (but  priding  him- 
self, as  he  does,  in  his  fertile  invention)  ;  he  would  have 
been  utterly  abandoned,  irreclaimable,  and  a  savage. 

[When  she  comes  to  relate  those  occasions  which  Mr.  Love- 
lace in  his  narrative  acknowledges  himself  to  be  affected 
by,  she  thus  expresses  herself:] 

He  endeavoured,  as  once  before,  to  conceal  his  emotion. 
But  why,  my  dear,  should  these  men  (for  Mr.  Lovelace  is 
not  singular  in  this)  think  themselves  above  giving  these 
beautiful  proofs  of  a  feeling  heart?  Were  it  in  my  power 
again  to  choose,  or  to  refuse,  I  would  reject  the  man  with 
contempt,  who  sought  to  suppress,  or  offered  to  deny,  the 
power  of  being  visibly  affected  upon  proper  occasions,  as 
either  a  savage-hearted  creature,  or  as  one  who  was  so  igno- 
rant of  the  principal  glory  of  the  human  nature,  as  to  place 
his  pride  in  a  barbarous  insensibility. 

These  lines  translated  from  Juvenal  by  Mr.  Tate,  I  have 
been  often  pleased  with : 

Rosebud,  he  says — '  As   I  make  it  my  rule,  whenever  I  have  com- 

*  mitted  a  very  capital  enormity,  to  do  some  good  by  way  of  atone- 
'ment;  and  as  I  believe  I  am  a  pretty  deal  indebted  on  that  score; 

*  I  intend  to  join  a  hundred  pounds  to  Johnny's  aunt's  hundred 
'  pounds,  to  make  one  innocent  couple  happy.' — Besides  which  mo- 
tive, he  had  a  further  view  to  answer  in  that  instance  of  his  gener- 
osity; as  may  be  seen  in  Vol.  II.  Letters  XXVIII.  XXIX.  XXX.  See 
also  the  note,  Vol.  II.  page  161. 

To  show  the  consistence  of  his  actions,  as  they  now  appear,  with 
his  views  and  principles,  as  he  lays  them  down  in  his  first  letters, 
it  may  be  not  amiss  to  refer  to  his  letters,  Vol.  I.  No.  XXXIV. 
XXXV. 

See  also  Vol.  I.  Letter  XXX. — and  Letter  XL.  for  Clarissa's  early 
opinion  of  Mr.  Lovelace. — Whence  the  coldness  and  indifference  to 
him,  which  he  so  repeatedly  accuses  her  of,  will  be  accounted  for, 
more  to  her  glory,  than  to  his  honour. 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  295 

Compassion  proper  to  mankind  appears: 
Which  Nature  witnessed,  when  she  lent  us  tears. 
Of  tender  sentiments  we  only  give 
These  proofs:     To  weep  is  our  prerogative: 
To  show  by  pitying  looks,  and  melting  eyes, 
How  with  a  suffering  friend  we  sympathise. 

Who  can  all  sense  of  other  ills  escape. 

Is  but  a  brute  at  best,  in  human  shape. 

It  cannot  but  yield  me  some  pleasure,  hardly  as  I  have 
sometimes  thought  of  the  people  of  the  house,  that  such  a 
good  man  as  Captain  Tomlinson  had  spoken  well  of  them, 
upon  inquiry. 

And  here  I  stop  a  minute,  my  dear,  to  receive,  in  fancy, 
your  kind  congratulation. 

My  next,  I  hope,  will  confirm  my  present,  and  open 
still  more  agreeable  prospects.  Meantime  be  assured  that 
there  cannot  possibly  any  good  fortune  befal  me,  which  I 
shall  look  upon  with  equal  delight  to  that  I  have  in  your 
friendship. 

My  thankful  compliments  to  your  good  Mr.  Hickman, 
to  whose  kind  invention  I  am  so  much  obliged  on  this 
occasion,  conclude  me,  my  dearest  Miss  Howe, 

Your  ever  affectionate  and  grateful 

Cl.  Harlowb. 


LETTER    LVII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  May  30. 

I  HAVE  a  letter  from  Lord  M.  Such  a  one  as  I  would 
wish  for,  if  I  intended  matrimony.  But  as  matters  are 
circumstanced,  I  cannot  think  of  showing  it  to  my  beloved. 
My  Lord  regrets  'that  he  is  not  to  be  the  lady's  nuptial 
'  father.  He  seems  apprehensive  that  I  have  still,  specious 
'  as  my  reasons  are,  some  mischief  in  my  head.' 


296  TEE   HISTORY   OF 

He  graciously  consents  '  that  I  may  marry  when  I  please ; 
'  and  offers  one  or  both  of  my  cousins  to  assist  my  bride, 
'  and  to  support  her  spirits  on  the  occasion ;  since  as  he 
'  understands,  she  is  so  much  afraid  to  venture  with  me, 

'  Pritchard,  he  tells  me,  has  his  final  orders  to  draw  up 
'  deeds  for  assigning  over  to  me,  in  perpetuity,  lOOOZ.  per 
'  annum;  which  he  will  execute  the  same  hour  that  the  lady 
'  in  person  owns  her  marriage/ 

He  consents  '  that  the  jointure  be  made  from  my  own 
'  estate.' 

He  wishes  '  that  the  lady  would  have  accepted  of  his 
'  draught ;  and  commends  me  for  tendering  it  to  her.  But 
'  reproaches  me  for  my  pride  in  not  keeping  it  myself. 
'  What  the  right  side  gives  up,  the  left,  he  says,  may  he  the 
'  hetter  for.' 

The  girls,  the  left-sided  girls,  he  means. 

With  all  my  heart  if  I  can  have  my  Clarissa,  the  devil 
take  everything  else. 

A  good  deal  of  other  stuff  writes  the  stupid  peer;  scrib- 
bling in  several  places  half  a  dozen  lines,  apparently  for  no 
other  reason  but  to  bring  in  as  many  musty  words  in  an 
old  saw. 

If  thou  askest,  '  How  I  can  manage,  since  my  beloved 
'  will  wonder  that  I  have  not  an  answer  from  my  Lord  to 
'  such  a  letter  as  I  wrote  to  him ;  and  if  I  own  I  have  one, 
'  will  expect  that  I  should  show  it  to  her,  as  I  did  my 
'  letter  ? ' — This  I  answer — '  That  I  can  be  informed  by 
'  Pritchard  that  my  Lord  has  the  gout  in  his  right  hand ; 
'  and  has  ordered  him  to  attend  me  in  form,  for  my  par- 
'  ticular  orders  about  the  transfer.'  And  I  can  see  Pritchard, 
thou  knowest,  at  the  King's  Arms,  or  wherever  I  please, 
at  an  hour's  warning ;  though  he  he  at  M.  Hall,  I  in  town; 
and  he,  by  word  of  mouth,  can  acquaint  me  with  everything 
in  my  Lord's  letter  that  is  necessary  for  my  charmer  to  know. 

Whenever  it  suits  me,  I  can  restore  the  old  peer  to  his 
right  hand,  and  then  can  make  him  write  a  much  more 
sensible  letter  than  this  that  he  has  now  sent  me. 

Thou  knowest  that  an  adroitness  in  the  art  of  manual 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  297 

imitation,  was  one  of  my  earliest  attainments.  It  has  been 
said,  on  this  occasion,  that  had  I  been  a  had  man  in  meum 
and  tuum  matters,  I  should  not  have  been  fit  to  live.  As 
to  the  girls,  we  hold  it  no  sin  to  cheat  them.  And  are 
we  not  told,  that  in  being  well  deceived  consists  the  whole 
of  human  happiness? 


Wednesday,  May  31. 

All  still  happier  and  happier.  A  very  high  honour  done 
me :  a  chariot,  instead  of  a  coach,  permitted,  purposely  to 
indulge  me  in  the  subject  of  subjects. 

Our  discourse  in  this  sweet  airing  turned  upon  our  future 
manner  of  life.  The  day  is  bashfully  promised  me.  Soon 
was  the  answer  to  my  repeated  urgency.  Our  equipage, 
our  servants,  our  liveries,  were  part  of  the  delightful  sub- 
ject. A  desire  that  the  wretch  who  had  given  me  intelli- 
gence out  of  the  family  (honest  Joseph  Leman)  might  not 
be  one  of  our  menials;  and  her  resolution  to  have  her  faith- 
ful Hannah,  whether  recovered  or  not,  were  signified;  and 
both  as  readily  assented  to. 

Her  wishes,  from  my  attentive  behaviour,  when  with  her 
at  St.  Paul's,*  that  I  would  often  accompany  her  to  the 
Divine  Service,  were  gently  intimated,  and  as  readily  en- 
gaged for.  I  assured  her  that  I  ever  had  respected  the  clerg}' 
in  a  body;  and  some  individuals  of  them  (her  Dr.  Lewen 
for  one)  highly;  and  that  were  not  going  to  church  an  act 
of  religion,  I  thought  it  [as  I  told  thee  oncef]  a  most  agree- 
able sight  to  see  rich  and  poor,  all  of  a  company,  as  I  might 
say,  assembled  once  a  week  in  one  place,  and  each  in  his  or 
her  best  attire,  to  worship  the  God  that  made  them.  Nor 
could  it  be  a  hardship  upon  a  man  lil^erally  educated,  to 
make  one  on  so  solemn  an  occasion,  and  to  hear  the  harangue 
of  a  man  of  letters  (though  far  from  being  the  principal  part 
of  the  service,  as  it  is  too  generally  looked  upon  to  be), 
whose  studies  having  taken  a  different  turn  from  his  own, 
he  must  alwavs  have  something  new  to  sav. 

*  See  Vol.  III.,  Letter  LXV.  f  Ibid. 


393  THE   HISTORY    OF 

She  shook  her  head,  and  repeated  the  word  new:  but 
looked  as  if  willing  to  be  satisfied  for  the  present  with  this 
answer.  To  be  sure,  Jack,  she  means  to  do  great  despight 
to  his  Satanic  majesty  in  her  hopes  of  reforming  me.  Xo 
wonder,  therefore,  if  he  exerts  himself  to  prevent  her,  and 
to  be  revenged.  But  how  came  this  in! — I  am  ever  of  party 
against  myself. — One  day,  I  fancy,  I  shall  hate  myself  on 
recollecting  what  I  am  about  at  this  instant.  But  I  must 
stay  till  then.    We  must  all  of  us  do  something  to  repent  of. 

The  reconciliation  prospect  was  enlarged  upon.  If  her 
uncle  Harlowe  will  but  pave  the  way  to  it,  and  if  it  can 
be  brought  about,  she  shall  be  happy. — Happy,  with  a  sigh, 
as  it  is  now  possible  she  can  he! 

She  won't  forbear.  Jack ! 

I  told  her  that  I  had  heard  from  Pritchard,  just  before  we 
set  out  on  our  airing,  and  expected  him  in  town  to-morrow 
from  Lord  M.  to  take  my  directions.  I  spoke  with  gratitude 
of  my  Lord's  kindness  to  me;  and  with  pleasure  of  Lady 
Sarah's,  Lady  Betty's,  and  my  two  cousins  Montague's  ven- 
eration for  her:  as  also  of  his  lordship's  concern  that  his 
gout  hindered  him  from  writing  a  reply  with  his  own  hand 
to  my  last. 

She  pitied  m}^  Lord.  She  pitied  poor  Mrs.  Fretchville 
too;  for  she  had  the  goodness  to  inquire  after  her.  The 
dear  creature  pitied  everybody  that  seemed  to  want  pity. 
Happy  in  her  own  prospects,  she  had  leisure  to  look  abroad, 
and  wishes  everybod}^  equally  happy. 

It  is  likely  to  go  very  hard  with  Mrs.  Fretchville.  Her 
face,  which  she  had  valued  herself  upon,  will  be  utterly 
ruined.  '  This  good,  however,  as  I  could  not  but  observe, 
'  she  may  reap  from  so  great  an  evil — as  the  greater  malady 
'  generally  swallows  up  the  less,  she  may  have  a  grief  on 
'  this  occasion,  that  may  diminish  the  other  grief,  and  make 
'  it  tolerable.' 

I  had  a  gentle  reprimand  for  this  liglit  turn  on  so  heavy 
an  evil — '  For  what  was  the  loss  of  beaut}^  to  the  loss  of  a 
good  husband  ?  ' — Excellent  creature  ! 

Her  hopes  (and  her  pleasure  upon  those  hopes)  that  Miss 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  299 

Howe's  mother  would  be  reconciled  to  her,  were  also  men- 
tioned. Good  Mrs.  Howe  was  her  word,  for  a  woman  so 
covetous,  and  so  remorseless  in  her  covetousness,  that  no 
one  else  will  call  her  good.  But  this  dear  creature  has  such 
an  extension  in  her  love,  as  to  be  capable  of  valuing  the 
most  insignificant  animal  related  to  those  whom  she  respects. 
Love  me,  and  love  my  dog,  I  have  heard  Lord  M.  say. — 
Who  knows,  but  that  I  may  in  time,  in  compliment  to  my- 
self, bring  her  to  think  well  of  thee.  Jack  ? 

But  what  am  I  about?  Am  I  not  all  this  time  arraigning 
my  own  heart? — I  know  I  am,  by  the  remorse  I  feel  in  it, 
while  m}''  pen  bears  testimony  to  her  excellence.  But  yet 
I  must  add  (for  no  selfish  consideration  shall  hinder  me  from 
doing  justice  to  this  admirable  creature)  that  in  this  con- 
versation she  demonstrated  so  much  prudent  knowledge  in 
everything  that  relates  to  that  part  of  the  domestic  man- 
agement which  falls  under  the  care  of  a  mistress  of  a 
family,  that  I  believe  she  has  no  equal  of  her  years  in  the 
world. 

But  indeed  1  know  not  the  subject  on  which  she  does 
not  talk  with  admirable  distinction;  insomuch  that  could  I 
but  get  over  my  prejudices  against  matrimony,  and  resolve 
to  walk  in  the  dull  beaten  path  of  my  ancestors,  I  should 
be  the  happiest  of  men — and  if  I  cannot,  perhaps  I  may 
be  ten  times  more  to  be  pitied  than  she. 

My  heart,  my  heart,  Belford,  is  not  to  he  trusted. — I  break 
off  to  re-peruse  some  of  Miss  Howe's  virulence. 

CuESED  letters,  these  of  Miss  Howe,  Jack ! — Do  thou  turn 
back  to  those  of  mine,  where  I  take  notice  of  them — I  pro- 
ceed— 

Upon  the  whole,  my  charmer  was  all  gentleness,  all  ease, 
all  serenity,  throughout  this  sweet  excursion.  Nor  had  she 
reason  to  be  otherwise :  for  it  being  the  first  time  that  I  had 
the  honour  of  her  company  alone,  I  was  resolved  to  encour- 
age her,  by  my  respectfulness,  to  repeat  the  favour. 

On  our  return,  I  found  the  counsellor's  clerk  waiting  for 
me,  with  a  draught  of  the  marriage  settlements. 


300  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

They  are  drawn^  with  only  the  necessary  variations,  from 
those  made  for  my  mother.  The  original  of  which  (now 
returned  by  the  counsellor)  as  well  as  the  new  draughts,  I 
have  put  into  my  beloved's  hands. 

These  settlements  of  my  mother  made  the  lawyer's  work 
easy;  nor  can  she  have  a  better  precedent;  the  great  Lord 
S.  having  settled  them,  at  the  request  of  my  mother's  rela- 
tions; all  the  difference,  my  charmer's  are  lOOZ.  per  annum 
more  than  my  mother's. 

I  offered  to  read  to  her  the  old  deed  while  she  looked 
over  the  draught;  for  she  refused  her  presence  at  the  exam- 
ination with  the  clerk:  but  this  she  also  declined. 

I  suppose  she  did  not  care  to  hear  of  so  many  children, 
first,  second,  third,  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  sons,  and 
as  many  daughters,  to  he  begotten  upon  the  hody  of  the  said 
Clarissa  Harlowe. 

Charming  matrimonial  recitativoes ! — though  it  is  always 
said  lawfull  hegotten  too — as  if  a  man  could  beget  children 
unlawfully  upon  the  body  of  his  own  wife. — But  thinkest 
thou  not  that  these  arch  rogues  the  lawyers  hereby  intimate 
that  a  man  may  have  children  by  his  wife  before  marriage? 
— This  must  be  what  they  mean.  Wliy  will  these  sly  fel- 
lows put  an  honest  man  in  mind  of  such  rogueries? — but 
hence,  as  in  numberless  other  instances,  we  see  that  law 
and  gospel  are  two  very  different  things. 

Dorcas,  in  our  absence,  tried  to  get  at  the  wainscot  box 
in  the  dark  closet.  But  it  cannot  be  done  without  violence. 
And  to  run  a  risk  of  consequence  now,  for  mere  curiosity 
sake,  would  be  inexcusable. 

Mrs,  Sinclair  and  the  nymphs  are  all  of  opinion  that  I 
am  now  so  much  a  favourite,  and  have  such  a  visible  share 
in  her  confidence,  and  even  in  her  affections,  that  I  may  do 
what  I  will,  and  plead  for  excuse  violence  of  passion;  which, 
they  will  have  it,  makes  violence  of  action  pardonable  with 
their  sex;  as  well  as  an  allowed  extenuation  with  the  uncon- 
cerned of  loth  sexes;  and  they  all  offer  their  helping  hands. 
Why  not?  they  say:  has  she  not  passed  for  my  wife  before 
them  all? — And  is  she  not  in  a  fine  way  o'  being  reconciled 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  301 

to  her  friends  ? — And  was  not  the  want  of  that  reconciliation 
the  pretence  for  postponing  the  consummation? 

They  again  urge  me,  since  it  is  so  difficult  to  make  night 
my  friend,  to  an  attempt  in  the  day.  They  remind  me  that 
the  situation  of  their  house  is  such,  that  no  noises  can  be 
heard  out  of  it;  and  ridicule  me  for  making  it  necessary 
for  a  lady  to  be  undressed.  It  was  not  always  so  with  me, 
poor  old  man !  Sally  told  me ;  saucily  flinging  her  handker- 
chief in  my  face. 


LETTER    LVIII. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Friday,  June  2. 

Notwithstanding  my  studied-for  politeness  and  complai- 
sance for  some  days  past;  and  though  I  have  wanted  courage 
to  throw  the  mask  quite  aside;  yet  I  have  made  the  dear 
creature  more  than  once  look  about  her,  by  the  warm,  though 
decent  expression  of  my  passion.  I  have  brought  her  to 
own  that  I  am  more  than  indifferent  with  her:  but  as  to 
LOVE^  which  I  pressed  her  to  acknowledge,  what  need  of  ac- 
knowledgments of  that  sort,  when  a  woman  consents  to  mar- 
rying?— And  once  repulsing  me  with  displeasure,  the  proof 
of  true  love  I  was  vowing  for  her,  was  respect^  not  free- 
dom. And  offering  to  defend  myself,  she  told  me  that  all 
the  conception  she  had  been  able  to  form  of  a  faulty  passion, 
was,  that  it  must  demonstrate  itself  as  mine  sought  to  do. 

I  endeavoured  to  justify  my  passion,  by  laying  over-deli- 
cacy at  her  door.  Over-delicacy,  she  said,  was  not  my  fault, 
if  it  were  hers.  She  must  plainly  tell  me,  that  I  appeared 
to  her  incapable  of  distinguishing  what  were  the  requisites 
of  a  pure  mind.  Perhaps,  had  the  libertine  presumption 
to  imagine  that  there  was  no  difference  in  heart,  nor  any  but 
what  proceeded  from  difference  of  education  and  custom, 
between  the  pure  and  impure — and  yet  custom  alone,  as  she 


302  THE   HISTORY    OF 

observed,  if  I  did  so  tliink,  would  make  a  second  nature,  as 
well  in  good  as  in  had  habits. 

I  HAVE  just  now  been  called  to  account  for  some  innocent 
liberties  which  I  thought  myself  entitled  to  take  before  the 
women;  as  they  suppose  us  to  be  married,  and  now  within 
view  of  consummation. 

I  took  the  lecture  very  hardly;  and  with  impatience  wished 
for  the  happy  day  and  hour  when  I  might  call  her  all  my 
own,  and  meet  with  no  check  from  a  niceness  that  had  no 
example. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  bashful  kind  of  contempt.  I 
thought  it  contempt,  and  required  the  reason  for  it;  not 
being  conscious  of  offence,  as  I  told  her. 

This  is  not  the  first  time,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  she,  that  I 
have  had  cause  to  be  displeased  with  you,  when  you,  per- 
haps, have  not  thought  yourself  exceptionable. — But,  sir, 
let  me  tell  you  that  the  married  state,  in  my  eye,  is  a  state 
of  purity,  and  [I  tliinh  she  told  me]  not  of  licentiousness ; 
so,  at  least,  I  understood  her. 

Marriage  purity.  Jack! — Very  comical,  'faith — yet,  sweet 
dears,  half  the  female  world  ready  to  run  away  with  a  rake, 
because  he  is  a  rake;  and  for  no  other  reason;  nay,  every 
other  reason  against  their  choice  of  such  a  one. 

But  have  not  you  and  I,  Belford,  seen  young  wives,  who 
would  be  thought  modest,  and,  when  maids,  were  fantasti- 
cally shy;  permit  freedoms  in  public  from  their  uxorious 
husbands,  which  have  shown  that  both  of  them  have  for- 
gotten what  belongs  either  to  prudence  or  decency?  while 
every  modest  eye  has  sunk  under  the  shameless  effrontery, 
and  every  modest  face  been  covered  with  blushes  for  those 
who  could  not  blush. 

I  once,  upon  such  an  occasion,  proposed  to  a  circle  of  a 
dozen,  thus  scandalized,  to  withdraw;  since  they  must  needs 
see  that  as  well  the  lady,  as  the  gentleman,  wanted  to  be  in 
private.  This  motion  had  its  effect  upon  the  amorous  pair; 
and  I  was  applauded  for  the  check  given  to  their  licentious- 
ness. 


CLARISSA    IIARLOWE.  303 

But  upon  another  occasion  of  this  sort,  I  acted  a  little 
more  in  character.  For  I  ventured  to  make  an  attempt 
upon  a  bride,  which  I  should  not  have  had  the  courage  to 
make,  had  not  the  unblushing  passiveness  with  which  she 
received  her  fond  husband's  public  toyings  (looking  round 
her  with  triumph  rather  than  with  shame,  upon  every  lady 
present),  incited  my  curiosity  to  know  if  the  same  com- 
placency might  not  be  shown  to  a  private  friend.  'Tis  true, 
I  was  in  honour  obliged  to  keep  the  secret.  But  I  never 
saw  the  turtles  bill  afterwards,  but  I  thought  of  number  two 
to  the  same  female;  and  in  my  heart  thanked  the  fond 
husband  for  the  lesson  he  had  taught  his  wife. 

From  what  I  have  said,  thou  wilt  see  that  I  approve  of  my 
beloved's  exception  to  public  loves.  That,  I  hope,  is  all  the 
charming  icicle  means  by  marriage  purity.    But  to  return. 

From  the  whole  of  what  I  have  mentioned  to  have  passed 
between  my  beloved  and  me,  thou  wilt  gather  that  I  have 
not  been  a  mere  dangler,  a  Hickman,  in  the  passed  days, 
though  not  absolutely  active,  and  a  Lovelace. 

The  dear  creature  now  considers  herself  as  my  wife-elect. 
The  unsaddened  heart,  no  longer  prudish,  will  not  now,  I 
hope,  give  the  sable  turn  to  every  address  of  the  man  she 
dislikes  not.  And  yet  she  must  keep  up  so  much  reserve, 
as  will  justify  past  inflexibilities.  '  Many  and  many  a 
'  pretty  soul  would  yield,  were  she  not  afraid  that  the  man 
'  she  favoured  would  think  the  worse  of  her  for  it.'  This 
is  also  a  part  of  the  rake's  creed.  But  should  she  resent 
ever  so  strongly,  she  cannot  now  break  with  me;  since,  if 
she  does,  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  family  reconciliation; 
and  that  in  a  way  highly  discreditable  to  herself. 


Saturday,  June  3. 

Just  returned  from  Doctors  Commons.  I  have  been  endeav- 
ouring to  get  a  license.  Very  true.  Jack.  I  have  the 
mortification  to  find  a  difficulty,  as  the  lady  is  of  rank  and 
fort.une,  and  as  there  is  no  consent  of  father  or  next  friend, 
in  obtaining  this  all-fettering  instrument. 


304  THE   HISTORY    OF 

I  made  report  of  this  difficulty.  '  It  is  very  right/  she 
says,  '  that  such  difficulties  should  be  made.' — But  not  to  a 
man  of  my  known  fortune,  surely.  Jack,  though  the  woman 
were  the  daughter  of  a  duke. 

I  asked  if  she  approved  of  the  settlements?  She  said  she 
had  compared  them  with  my  mother's,  and  had  no  objection 
to  them.  She  had  written  to  Miss  Howe  upon  the  subject, 
she  owned;  and  to  inform  her  of  our  present  situation.* 

Just  now,  in  high  good  humour,  my  beloved  returned 
me  the  draughts  of  the  settlements:  a  copy  of  which  I  have 
sent  to  Captain  Tomlinson.  She  complimented  me,  '  that 
*  she  never  had  any  doubt  of  my  honour  in  cases  of  this 
'  nature.' 

In  matters  between  man  and  man  nobody  ever  had,  thou 
knowest. 

I  had  need,  thou  wilt  say,  to  have  some  good  qualities. 

Great  faults  and  great  virtues  are  often  found  in  the  same 
person.  In  nothing  very  bad,  but  as  to  women:  and  did 
not  one  of  them  begin  with  me.f 

We  have  held  that  women  have  no  souls.  I  am  a  very 
Turk  in  this  point,  and  willing  to  believe  they  have  not. 
And  if  so,  to  whom  shall  I  be  accountable  for  what  I  do 
to  them?  Nay,  if  souls  they  have,  as  there  is  no  sex  in 
etherials,  nor  need  of  any,  what  plea  can  a  lady  hold  of 
injuries  done  her  in  her  lady-ste^e^  when  there  is  an  end  of 
her  lady-s/itpf 

*  As  this  letter  of  the  lady  to  Miss  Howe  contains  no  new  matter, 
but  what  may  be  collected  from  those  of  Mr.  Lovelace,  it  is  omitted. 
t  See  vol.  i.  Letter  XXXI. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  305 


LETTER    LIX. 


Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday,  June  5. 

I  AM  now  almost  in  despair  of  succeeding  with  this  charm- 
ing frost-piece  by  love  or  gentleness. — A  copy  of  the  draughts, 
as  I  told  thee,  has  been  sent  to  Captain  Tomlinson;  and 
that  by  a  special  messenger.  Engrossments  are  proceeding 
with.  I  have  been  again  at  the  Commons. — Should  in  all 
probability  have  procured  a  license  by  Mallory's  means,  had 
not  Mallory's  friend,  the  proctor,  been  suddenly  sent  for  to 
Cheshunt,  to  make  an  old  lady's  will.  Pritchard  has  told 
me  by  word  of  mouth,  though  my  charmer  saw  him  not,  all 
that  was  necessary  for  her  to  know  in  the  letter  my  Lord 
wrote,  which  I  could  not  show  her:  and  taken  my  directions 
about  the  estates  to  be  made  over  to  me  on  my  nuptials. — 
Yet,  with  all  these  favourable  appearances,  no  conceding  mo- 
ment to  be  found,  no  improvable  tenderness  to  be  raised. 

But  never,  I  believe  was  there  so  true,  so  delicate  a  mod- 
esty in  the  human  mind  as  in  that  of  this  lady.  And  this 
has  been  my  security  all  along;  and  in  spite  of  Miss  Howe's 
advice  to  her,  will  be  so  still ;  since,  if  her  delicacy  be  a  fault, 
she  can  no  more  overcome  it  than  I  can  my  aversion  to  mat- 
rimony. Habit,  habit,  Jack,  seest  thou  not?  may  subject  us 
both  to  weaknesses.  And  should  she  not  have  charity  for  me, 
as  I  have  for  her? 

Twice  indeed  with  rapture,  which  once  she  called  rude,  did 
I  salute  her;  and  each  time  resenting  the  freedom,  did  she 
retire ;  though,  to  do  her  justice,  she  favoured  me  again  with 
her  presence  at  m}''  first  entreaty,  and  took  no  notice  of  the 
cause  of  her  withdrawing. 

Is  it  policy  to  show  so  open  a  resentment  for  innocent 
liberties,  which,  in  her  situation,  she  must  so  soon  forgive  ? 

Yet  the  woman  who  resents  not  initiatory  freedoms  must 
he  lost.  For  love  in  an  encroacher.  Love  never  goes  back- 
ward.   Love  is  always  aspiring.    Always  must  aspire.    Noth- 


306  TEE   HISTORY    OP 

ing  but  the  highest  act  of  love  can  satisfy  an  indulged 
love.  And  what  advantages  has  a  lover,  who  values  not 
breaking  the  peace,  over  his  mistress  who  is  solicitous  to 
keep  it! 

I  have  now  at  this  instant  wrought  mj^self  up,  for  the 
dozenth  time,  to  a  half  resolution.  A  thousand  agreeable 
things  I  have  to  say  to  her.  She  is  in  the  dining-room. 
Just  gone  up.    She  always  expects  me  when  there. 

High  displeasure ! — followed  by  an  abrupt  departure. 

I  sat  down  by  her.  I  took  both  her  hands  in  mine.  I 
would  have  it  so.  All  gentle  my  voice.  Her  father  men- 
tioned with  respect.  Her  mother  with  reverence.  Even  her 
brother  amicably  spoken  of.  I  never  thought  I  could  have 
wished  so  ardently,  as  I  told  her  I  did  wish,  for  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  her  family. 

A  sweet  and  grateful  flush  then  overspread  her  fair  face; 
a  gentle  sigh  now  and  then  heaved  her  handkerchief. 

I  perfectly  longed  to  hear  from  Captain  Tomlinson.  It 
was  impossible  for  the  uncle  to  find  fault  with  the  draught 
of  the  settlements.  I  would  not,  however,  be  understood,  by 
sending  them  down,  that  I  intended  to  put  it  in  her  uncle's 
power  to  delay  my  happy  day.    When,  when  was  it  to  be  ? 

I  would  hasten  again  to  the  Commons;  and  would  not 
return  without  the  license. 

The  Lawn  I  proposed  to  retire  to,  as  soon  as  the  happy 
ceremony  was  over.    This  day  and  that  day  I  proposed. 

It  was  time  enough  to  name  the  day,  when  the  settlements 
were  completed,  and  the  license  obtained.  Happy  should 
she  be,  could  the  kind  Captain  Tomlinson  obtain  her  uncle's 
presence  privately. 

A  good  hint ! — It  may  perhaps  be  improved  upon — either 
for  a  delay  or  a  pacifier. 

'No  new  delays,  for  Heaven's  sake,  I  besought  her;  and 
reproached  her  gently  for  the  past.  Name  but  the  day  (an 
early  day,  I  hoped  it  would  be,  in  the  following  week) — that 
I  might  hail  its  approach,  and  number  the  tardy  hours. 

My  cheek  reclined  on  her  shoulder — kissing  her  hands  by 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  307 

turns.  Rather  bashfully  than  angrily  reluctant,  her  hands 
sought  to  be  withdrawn;  her  shoulder  avoiding  my  reclined 
cheek — apparently  loth,  and  more  loth  to  quarrel  with  me; 
her  downcast  eye  confessing  more  than  her  lips  could  utter. 
Now  surely,  thought  I,  is  my  time  to  try  if  she  can  forgive 
a  still  bolder  freedom  than  I  had  ever  yet  taken. 

I  then  gave  her  struggling  hands  liberty.  I  put  one  arm 
round  her  waist :  I  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  sweet  lip,  with  a 
Be  quiet  only,  and  an  averted  face,  as  if  she  feared  another. 

Encouraged  hy  so  gentle  a  repulse,  the  tenderest  things  I 
said;  and  then,  with  my  other  hand,  drew  aside  the  hand- 
kerchief that  concealed  the  beauty  of  beauties,  and  pressed 
with  my  burning  lips  the  most  charming  breast  that  ever  my 
ravished  eyes  beheld. 

A  very  contrary  passion  to  that  which  gave  her  bosom  so 
delightful  a  swell  immediately  took  place.  She  struggled 
out  of  my  encircling  arms  with  indignation.  I  detained  her 
reluctant  hand.  Let  me  go,  said  she.  I  see  there  is  no  Tceep- 
ing  terms  with  you.  Base  encroacher !  Is  this  the  design  of 
your  flattering  speeches?  Far  as  matters  have  gone,  I  will 
for  ever  renounce  you.  You  have  an  odious  heart.  Let  me 
go,  I  tell  you. 

I  was  forced  to  obey,  and  she  flung  from  me,  repeating 
hase,  and  adding,  flattering,  encroacher. 

In  vain  have  I  urged  by  Dorcas  for  the  promised  favour 
of  dining  with  her.  She  would  not  dine  at  all.  She  could 
not. 

But  why  makes  she  every  inch  of  her  person  thus  sacred? 
— So  near  the  time  too,  that  she  must  suppose  that  all  will 
be  my  own  by  deed  of  purchase  and  settlement? 

She  has  read,  no  doubt,  of  the  art  of  the  eastern  monarchs, 
who  sequester  themselves  from  the  eyes  of  their  subjects,  in 
order  to  excite  their  adoration,  when,  upon  some  solemn  oc- 
casions, they  think  fit  to  appear  in  public. 

But  let  me  ask  thee,  Belford,  whether  (on  these  solemn 
occasions)  the  preceding  cavalcade;  here  a  great  officer,  and 
there  a  great  minister,  with  their  satellites,  and  glaring 
Vol.  IV— 22. 


308  THE   HISTORY    OF 

equipages,  do  not  prepare  tlie  eyes  of  the  wondering  behold- 
ers, by  degrees,  to  bear  the  blaze  of  canopied  majesty  (what 
though  but  an  ugly  old  man  perhaps  himself?  yet)  glittering 
in  the  collected  riches  of  his  vast  empire? 

And  should  not  my  beloved,  for  her  own  sake,  descend, 
by  degrees,  from  goddess-hood  into  humanity!  If  it  be  pride 
that  restrains  her,  ought  not  that  pride  to  be  punished?  If, 
as  in  the  eastern  emperors,  it  be  art  as  well  as  pride,  art  is 
what  she  of  all  women  need  not  use.  If  shame,  what  a 
shame  to  be  ashamed  to  communicate  to  her  adorer's  sight 
the  most  admirable  of  her  personal  graces? 

Let  me  perish,  Belford,  if  I  would  not  forego  the  brightest 
diadem  in  the  world,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  twin  Love- 
lace at  each  charming  breast,  drawing  from  it  his  first  sus- 
tenance; the  pious  task,  for  physical  reasons,*  continued  for 
one  month  and  no  more ! 

I  now,  methinks,  behold  this  most  charming  of  women  in 
this  sweet  office:  her  conscious  eye  now  dropt  on  one,  now 
on  the  other,  with  a  sigh  of  maternal  tenderness,  and  then 
raised  up  to  my  delighted  eye,  full  of  wishes,  for  the  sake 
of  the  pretty  varlets,  and  for  her  own  sake,  that  I  would 
deign  to  legitimate;  that  I  would  condescend  to  put  on  the 
nuptial  fetters. 


LETTER    LX. 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday  Afternoon. 

A  LETTER  received  from  the  worthy  Captain  Tomlinson  has 
introduced  me  into  the  presence  of  my  charmer  sooner  than 
perhaps  I  should  otherwise  have  been  admitted. 

*  In  Pamela,  Vol.  IV.  Letter  XLV.,  these  reasons  are  given,  and 
are  worthy  of  every  parent's  consideration,  as  is  the  whole  Letter, 
which  contains  the  debate  between  Mr.  B.  and  his  Pamela,  on  the 
important  subject  of  mothers  being  nurses  to  their  own  children. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  309 

Sullen  her  brow,  at  her  first  entrance  into  the  dining- 
room.  But  I  took  no  notice  of  what  had  passed,  and  her 
anger  of  itself  subsided. 

'  The  Captain,  after  letting  me  know  that  he  chose  not  to 
'write  till  he  had  promised  the  draught  of  the  settlements, 
'acquaints  me  that  his  friend  Mr.  John  Harlowe,  in  their 
*  first  conference  (which  was  held  as  soon  as  he  got  down) 
'  was  extremely  surprised,  and  even  grieved  (as  he  feared  he 
'  would  le)  to  hear  that  we  were  not  married.  The  world, 
'he  said,  who  knew  my  character,  would  be  very  censorious, 
'were  it  owned  that  we  had  lived  so  long  together  unmar- 
'ried  in  the  same  lodgings;  although  our  marriage  were 
'  now  to  be  ever  so  publicly  celebrated. 

'  His  nephew  James,  he  was  sure,  would  make  a  great 
'handle  of  it  against  any  motion,  that  might  be  made  to- 
'  wards  a  reconciliation ;  and  with  the  greater  success,  as 
'there  was  not  a  family  in  the  kingdom  more  jealous  of 
'their  honour  than  theirs.' 

This  is  true  of  the  Harlowes,  Jack :  they  have  been  called 
The  proud  Harlowes:  and  I  have  ever  found,  that  all  young 
honour  is  supercilious  and  touchy. 

But  seest  thou  not  how  right  I  was  in  my  endeavour  to 
persuade  my  fair  one  to  allow  her  imcle's  friend  to  think  us 
married;  especially  as  he  came  prepared  to  believe  it;  and 
as  her  uncle  hoped  it  was  so? — But  nothing  on  earth  is  so 
perverse  as  a  woman,  when  she  is  set  upon  carrying  a  point, 
and  has  a  meeh  man,  or  one  who  loves  his  peace,  to  deal 
with. 

My  beloved  was  vexed.  She  pulled  out  her  handkerchief ; 
but  was  more  inclined  to  blame  me  than  herself. 

Had  you  kept  your  word,  Mr.  Lovelace,  and  left  me  when 
we  came  to  town — and  there  she  stopped;  for  she  knew  that 
it  was  her  own  fault  that  we  were  not  married  before  we 
left  the  country ;  and  how  could  I  leave  her  afterwards,  while 
her  brother  was  plotting  to  carry  her  off  hy  violence? 

Nor  has  this  brother  yet  given  over  his  machinations. 

For,  as  the  Captain  proceeds,  'Mr.  John  Harlowe  owned 
'  to  him  (but  in  confidence)  that  his  nephew  is  at  this  time 


310  THE   HISTORY   OF 

*  busied  in  endeavouring  to  find  out  where  we  are ;  being 
'  assured  (as  I  am  not  to  be  heard  of  at  any  of  my  relations, 
'  or  at  my  usual  lodgings)  that  we  are  together.  And  that 
'  we  are  not  married  is  plain,  as  he  will  have  it,  from  Mr. 
'  Hiclcman's  applications  so  lately  made  to  her  uncle;  and 
'  which  iDos  seconded  hy  Mrs.  Norton  to  her  mother.  And 
'  her  brother  cannot  bear  that  I  should  enjoy  such  a  triumph 
'  unmolested.' 

A  profound  sigh,  and  the  handkerchief  again  lifted  to  the 
eye.  But  did  not  the  sweet  soul  deserve  this  turn  upon  her, 
for  feloniously  resolving  to  rob  me  of  herself,  had  the  ap- 
plication made  by  Hickman  succeeded? 

I  read  on  to  the  following  effect : 

'  Why  (asked  Mr.  Harlowe)   was  it  said  to  his  other  in- 

*  quiring  friend,  that  we  ivere  married ;  and  that  by  his 
'  niece's  woman,  who  ought  to  know  ?  who  could  give  con- 
'  vincing  reasons,  no  doubt' 

Here  again  she  wept;  took  a  turn  cross  the  room;  then 
returned — Bead  on,  says  she — 

Will  you,  my  dearest  life,  read  it  yourself  ? 

I  will  take  the  letter  with  me,  by  and  by — I  cannot  see  to 
read  it  just  now,  wiping  her  e3^es — read  on — let  me  hear  it 
all — that  I  may  know  your  sentiments  upon  this  letter,  as 
well  as  give  my  own. 

'  The  Captain  then  told  uncle  John  the  reasons  that  in- 
'  duced  me  to  give  out  that  we  were  married ;  and  the  con- 
'  ditions  on  which  my  beloved  was  brought  to  countenance 
'  it ;  which  had  kept  us  at  the  most  punctilious  distance. 

'  But  still  Mr.  Harlowe  objected  my  character,  and  went 

*  away  dissatisfied.    And  the  Captain  was  also  so  much  con- 

*  cerned,  that  he  cared  not  to  write  what  the  result  of  his  first 
'  conference  was. 

'  But  in  the  next,  which  was  held  on  receipt  of  the  draughts, 
*at  the  Captain's  house  (as  the  former  was,  for  the  greater 

*  secrecy) ,  when  the  old  gentleman  had  read  them,  and  had 
'  the  Captain's  opinion,  he  was  much  better  pleased.     And 

*  yet  he  declared  that  it  would  not  be  easy  to  persuade  any 
'  other  person  of  his  family  to  believe  so  favourably  of  the 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  311 

*  matter,  as  he  was  noiu  willing  to  believe,  were  they  to  know 
'  that  we  had  lived  so  long  together  unmarried. 

'  And  then  the  Captain  says,  his  dear  friend  made  a  pro- 
'posal: — It  was  this — That  we  should  marry  out  of  hand, 
'  hut  as  privately  as  possible,  as  indeed  he  found  ive  intended 
'  (for  he  could  have  no  objection  to  the  draughts) — hut  yet, 
'  he  expected  to  have  present  one  trusty  friend  of  his  own,  for 
'  his  better  satisfactioti ' 

Here  I  stopped,  with  a  design  to  be  angry — but  she  desir- 
ing me  to  read  on,  I  obeyed. 

'  — But  that  it  should  pass  to  every  one  living,  except  to  that 
'  trusty  person,  to  himself,  and  to  the  Captain,  that  we  were 
'  married  from  the  time  that  we  had  lived  together  in  one 
'  house;  and  that  this  time  should  be  made  to  agree  with  that 
'  of  Mr.  Hichmans  application  to  him  from  Miss  Howe.' 

This,  my  dearest  life,  said  I,  is  a  very  considerate  pro- 
posal. We  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  caution  the  people 
below  properly  on  this  head.  I  did  not  think  your  uncle 
Harlowe  capable  of  hitting  upon  such  a  charming  expedient 
as  this.  But  you  see  how  much  his  heart  is  in  the  recon- 
ciliation. 

This  was  the  return  I  met  with — You  have  always,  as  a 
mark  of  your  politeness,  let  me  know  how  meanly  you  think 
of  every  one  of  my  family. 

Yet  thou  wilt  think,  Belford,  that  I  could  forgive  her  for 
the  reproach. 

'  The  Captain  does  not  know,  he  says,  how  this  proposal 

*  will  be  relished  by  us.     But,  for  his  part,  he  thinks  it  an 

*  expedient   that   will    obviate   many   difficulties,    and   may 

*  possibly  put  an  end  to  Mr.  James  Harlowe's  further  de- 

*  signs ;  and  on  this  account  he  has,  hy  the  uncle's  advice, 

*  already  declared  to  two  several  persons,  by  whose  means  it 
'  may  come  to  that  young  gentleman's,  that  he  [Captain 
'  Tomlinson]  has  very  great  reason  to  believe  that  we  were 
'  married  soon  after  Mr.  Hickman's  application  was  rejected. 

'And  this,  Mr.  Lovelace  (says  the  Captain),  will  enable 

*  you  to  pay  a  compliment  to  the  family,  that  will  not  be 

*  unsuitable  to  the  generosity  of  some  of  the  declarations 


312  THE   HISTORY    OF 

*  you  were  pleased  to  make  to  the  lady  before  me  (and  which 
'  Mr.  John  Harlowe  may  make  some  advantage  of  in  favour 
'of  a  reconciliation),  in  that  you  have  not  demanded  your 
'  lady's  estate  so  soon  as  you  were  entitled  to  make  the  de- 

*  mand/  An  excellent  contriver,  surely,  she  must  think  this 
worthy  Mr.  Tomlinson  to  be ! 

But  the  Captain  adds,  '  that  if  either  the  lady  or  I  dis- 
'  approve  of  his  report  of  our  marriage,  he  will  retract  it. 
'  Nevertheless,  he  must  tell  me,  that  Mr.  John  Harlowe  is 
'  very  much  set  upon  this  way  of  proceeding ;  as  the  only 
'  one,  in  his  opinion,  capable  of  being  improved  into  a  general 
'  reconciliation.  But  if  we  do  acquiesce  in  it,  he  beseeches 
'  ray  fair  one  not  to  suspend  my  day,  that  he  may  be  author- 

*  ised  in  what  he  says,  as  to  the  truth  of  the  main  fact.  {^How 
'  conscientious  this  good  man!~\  Nor  must  it  be  expected, 
'  he  says,  that  her  uncle  will  take  one  step  towards  the  wished- 
'  for  reconciliation,  till  the  solemnity  is  actually  over.' 

He  adds,  'that  he  shall  be  very  soon  in  town  on  other 
'  affairs ;  and  then  proposes  to  attend  us,  and  give  us  a  more 
'  particular  account  of  all  that  has  passed,  or  shall  further 
'  pass,  between  Mr.  Harlowe  and  him.' 

Well,  my  dearest  life,  what  say  you  to  your  uncle's  ex- 
pedient? Shall  I  write  to  the  Captain,  and  acquaint  him 
that  we  have  no  objection  to  it? 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  At  last,  with  a  sigh. 
See,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  she,  what  you  have  brought  me  to, 
by  treading  after  you  in  such  crooked  paths ! — See  what  dis- 
grace I  have  incurred — Indeed  you  have  not  acted  like  a  wise 
man. 

My  beloved  creature,  do  you  not  remember  how  earnestly 
I  besought  the  honour  of  your  hand  before  we  came  to  town  ? 
— Had  I  been  then  favoured 

Well,  well,  sir;  there  has  been  much  amiss  somewhere; 
that's  all  I  will  say  at  present.  And  since  what's  past  can- 
not be  recalled,  my  uncle  must  be  obeyed,  I  think. 

Charmingly  dutiful ! — I  had  nothing  then  to  do,  that  I 
might  not  be  behindhand  with  the  worthy  Captain  and  her 
uncle,  but  to  press  for  the  day.     This  I  fervently  did.     But 


CLARISSA   HARLOW E.  313 

(as  I  might  have  expected)  she  repeated  her  former  answer; 
to  wit,  That  when  the  settlements  were  completed;  when 
the  license  was  actually  obtained;  it  would  be  time  enough 
to  name  the  day:  and,  0  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  she,  turning 
from  me  with  a  grace  inimitably  tender,  her  handkerchief 
at  her  eyes,  what  a  happiness,  if  my  dear  uncle  could  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  be  personally  a  father,  on  this  occasion,  to 
the  poor  fatherless  girl! 

What's  the  matter  with  me ! — Whence  this  dew-drop ! — 
A  tear ! — As  I  hope  to  be  saved,  it  is  a  tear.  Jack ! — Very 
ready  methinlvs ! — Only  on  reciting ! — But  her  lovely  image 
was  before  me,  in  the  very  attitude  she  spoke  the  words — 
and  indeed  at  the  time  she  spoke  them,  these  lines  of  Shak- 
Bpeare  came  into  my  head: 

Thy  heart  is  big.     Get  thee  apart  and  weep! 
Passion,  I  see,  is  catching: — For  my  eye, 
Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 
Begin  to  water — 

I  withdrew,  and  wrote  to  the  Captain  to  the  following 
effect — '  I  desired  that  he  would  be  so  good  as  to  acquaint 

*  his  dear  friend  that  we  entirely  acquiesced  with  what  he 
'had  proposed;  and  had  already  properly  cautioned  the  gen- 
'  tlewomen  of  the  house,  and  their  servants,  as  well  as  our 
'  own :  and  to  tell  him,  That  if  he  would  in  person  give  me 
'  the  blessing  of  his  dear  niece's  hand,  it  would  crown  the 
'  wishes  of  both.  In  this  case,  I  consented  that  his  own  day, 
'  as  I  presumed  it  would  he  a  short  one,  should  be  ours :  that 

*  by  this  means  the  secret  would  be  with  fewer  persons :  that 

*  I  myself,  as  well  as  he,  thought  the  ceremony  could  not  be 

*  too  privately  performed ;  and  this  not  only  for  the  sake  of 

*  the  wise  end  he  had  proposed  to  answer  by  it,  but  because 
'  I  would  not  have  Lord  M.  think  himself  slighted ;  since 
'  that  nobleman,  as  I  had  told  him  [the  Captain]  had  once 

*  intended  to  be  our  nuptial-father ;  and  actually  made  the 

*  offer ;  but  that  we  had  declined  to  accept  of  it,  and  that 

*  for  no  other  reason  than  to  avoid  a  public  wedding ;  which 
*his  beloved  niece  would  not  come  into,  while  she  was  in 


n 


14  THE   HISTORY    OF 


'  disgrace  with  her  friends.  But  that  if  he  chose  not  to  do 
'  us  this  honour,  I  wished  that  Captain  Tonilinson  might 
'  be  the  trusty  person  whom  he  would  have  to  be  present  on 
'  the  happy  occasion.' 

I  showed  this  letter  to  my  fair  one.  She  was  not  dis- 
pleased with  it.  So,  Jack,  we  cannot  now  move  too  fast, 
as  to  settlements  and  license:  the  day  is  her  uncle's  day, 
or  Captain  Tomlinson's,  perhaps,  as  shall  best  suit  the  occa- 
sion. Miss  Howe's  smuggling  scheme  is  now  surely  pro- 
vided against  in  all  events. 

But  I  will  not  by  anticipation  make  thee  a  judge  of  all 
the  benefits  that  may  flow  from  this  my  elaborate  contri- 
vance.   Why  will  these  girls  put  me  upon  my  mastei'stroJcesf 

And  now  for  a  little  mine  which  I  am  getting  ready  to 
spring.  The  first  that  I  have  sprung,  and  at  the  rate  I  go 
on  (now  a  resolution,  and  now  a  remorse)  perhaps  the  last 
that  I  shall  attempt  to  spring. 

A  little  mine,  I  call  it.  But  it  may  be  attended  with 
great  effects.  I  shall  not,  however,  absolutely  depend  upon 
the  success  of  it,  having  much  more  effectual  ones  in  reserve. 
And  yet  iiTeat  engines  are  often  moved  by  small  springs. 
A  little  spark  falling  by  accident  into  a  powder-magazine, 
hath  done  more  execution  in  a  siege  than  a  hundred  cannon. 

Come  tlie  worst,  the  hymeneal  torch,  and  a  white  sheet, 
must  be  my  amende  honorable,  as  the  French  have  it. 


LETTER  LXI. 

Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  June  6. 

Unsuccessful  as  hitherto  my  application  to  you  has  been, 
I  cannot  for  the  heart  of  me  forbear  writing  once  more  in 
behalf  of  this  admirable  woman :  and  yet  am  unable  to  account 
for  the  zeal  which  impels  me  to  take  her  part  with  an  earn- 
estness so  sincere. 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  315 

But  all  her  merit  thou  acknowledgest ;  all  thy  own  vileness 
thou  confessest,  and  even  gloriest  in  it.  What  hope  then  of 
moving  so  hardened  a  man? — Yet,  as  it  is  not  too  late,  and 
thou  art  nevertheless  upon  the  crisis,  I  am  resolved  to  try 
what  another  letter  will  do.  It  is  but  my  writing  in  vain,  if 
it  do  no  good;  and  if  thou  wilt  let  me  prevail,  I  know  thou 
wilt  hereafter  think  me  richly  entitled  to  thy  thanks. 

To  argue  with  thee  would  be  folly.  The  case  cannot  require 
it.  I  will  only  entreat  thee,  therefore,  that  thou  wilt  not  let 
such  an  excellence  lose  the  reward  of  her  vigilant  virtue. 

I  believe  there  never  were  libertines  so  vile,  but  purposed, 
at  some  future  period  of  their  lives,  to  set  about  reforming: 
and  let  me  beg  of  thee,  that  thou  wilt,  in  this  great  article, 
make  thy  future  repentance  as  easy  as  some  time  hence  thou 
wilt  wish  thou  hadst  made  it. 

If  thou  proceedest,  I  have  no  doubt  that  this  affair  will 
end  tragically,  one  way  or  other.  It  must.  Such  a  woman 
must  interest  both  gods  and  men  in  her  cause.  But  what  I 
most  apprehend  is,  that  with  her  own  hand,  in  resentment  of 
the  perpetrated  outrage,  she  (like  another  Lucretia)  will 
assert  the  purity  of  her  heart:  or,  if  her  piety  preserve  her 
from  this  violence,  that  wasting  grief  will  soon  put  a  period 
to  her  days.  And,  in  either  case,  will  not  the  remembrance 
of  thy  ever-during  guilt,  and  transitory  triumph,  be  a  tor- 
ment of  torments  to  thee? 

'Tis  a  seriously  sad  thing,  after  all,  that  so  fine  a  creature 
should  have  fallen  into  such  vile  and  remorseless  hands :  for, 
from  thy  cradle,  as  I  have  heard  thee  own,  thou  ever  delight-     ^^^ 
edst  to  sport  with  and  torment  the  animal,  whether  bird 
or  beast,  that  thou  lovedst,  and  hadst  a  power  over. 

How  different  is  the  case  of  this  fine  woman  from  that  of 
any  other  whom  thou  hast  seduced ! — I  need  not  mention  to 
thee,  nor  insist  upon  the  striking  difference:  justice,  grati- 
tude, thy  interest,  thy  vows,  all  engaging  thee ;  and  thou  cer- 
tainly loving  her,  as  far  as  thou  art  capable  of  love,  above  all 
her  sex.  She  not  to  be  drawn  aside  by  art,  or  to  be  made  to 
suffer  from  credulity,  nor  for  want  of  wit  and  discernment 
(that  will  be  another  cutting  reflection  to  so  fine  a  mind  as 


316  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

hers : )  the  contention  between  you  only  unequal,  as  it  is 
between  naked  innocence  and  armed  guilt.  In  everything 
else,  as  thou  ownest,  her  talents  greatly  superior  to  thine! — • 
AVhat  a  fate  will  hers  be,  if  thou  art  not  at  last  overcome  by 
thy  reiterated  remorses ! 

At  first,  indeed,  when  I  was  admitted  into  her  presence* 
(and  till  I  observed  her  meaning  air,  and  heard  her  speak),  I 
supposed  that  she  had  no  very  uncommon  judgment  to  boast 
of:  for  I  made,  as  I  thought,  but  just  allowances  for  her 
blossoming  youth,  and  for  that  loveliness  of  person,  and  for 
that  ease  and  elegance  in  her  dress,  which  I  imagined  must 
have  taken  up  half  her  time  and  study  to  cultivate ;  and  yet  I 
had  been  prepared  by  thee  to  entertain  a  very  high  opinion  of 
her  sense  and  her  reading.  Her  choice  of  this  gay  fellow, 
upon  such  hazardous  terms  (thought  I),  is  a  confirmation 
that  her  wit  wants  that  maturity  which  only  years  and  expe- 
rience can  give  it.  Her  knowledge  (argued  I  to  myself)  must 
be  all  theory;  and  the  complaisance  ever  consorting  with  an 
age  so  green  and  so  gay,  will  make  so  experienced  a  lady  at 
least  forbear  to  show  herself  disgusted  at  freedoms  of  dis- 
course in  which  those  present  of  her  own  sex,  and  some  of 
ours  (so  learned,  so  well  read,  and  so  travelled),  allow  them- 
selves. 

In  this  presumption  I  ran  on;  and  having  the  advantage, 
as  I  conceited,  of  all  the  company  but  you,  and  being  desirous 
to  appear  in  her  eyes  a  mighty  clever  fellow,  I  thought  I 
showed  away,  when  I  said  any  foolish  things  that  had  more 
sound  than  sense  in  them;  and  when  I  made  silly  jests, 
which  attracted  the  smiles  of  thy  Sinclair,  and  the  specious 
Partington:  and  that  Miss  Harlowe  did  not  smile  too,  I 
thought  was  owing  to  her  youth  or  affectation,  or  to  a  mix- 
ture of  both,  perhaps  to  a  greater  command  of  her  features. — 
little  dreamt  I  that  I  was  incurring  her  contempt  all  the 
time. 

But  when,  as  I  said,  I  heard  her  speak,  which  she  did  not 
till  she  had  fathomed  us  all ;  when  I  heard  her  sentiments  on 
two  or  three  subjects,  and  took  notice  of  that  searching  eye, 
*  See  Vol.  III.,  Letter  LXVII. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  317 

darting  into  the  very  inmost  cells  of  our  frothy  brains ;  by  my 
faith;  it  made  me  look  about  me;  and  I  began  to  recollect, 
and  be  ashamed  of  all  I  had  said  before;  in  short,  was 
resolved  to  sit  silent,  till  every  one  had  taU^ed  round,  to  keep 
my  folly  in  countenance.  And  then  I  raised  the  subjects  that 
she  could  join  in,  and  which  she  did  join  in,  so  much  to  the 
confusion  and  surprise  of  every  one  of  us ! — For  even  thou, 
Lovelace,  so  noted  for  smart  wit,  repartee,  and  a  vein  of 
raillery,  that  delighteth  all  who  come  near  thee,  sattest  in 
palpable  darkness,  and  lookedst  about  thee,  as  well  as  we. 

One  instance  only  of  this  shall  I  remind  thee  of. 

We  talked  of  wit,  and  of  wit,  and  aimed  at  it,  bandying  it 
like  a  ball  from  one  to  another,  and  resting  it  chiefly  with 
thee,  who  wert  always  proud  enough  and  vain  enough  of  the 
attribute;  and  then  more  especially  as  thou  hadst  assembled 
us,  as  far  as  I  know,  principally  to  show  the  lady  thy  superior- 
ity over  us;  and  us  thy  triumph  over  her.  And  then  Tour- 
ville  (who  is  always  satisfied  with  wit  at  secondhand;  wit 
upon  memory:  other  men's  wit)  repeated  some  verses,  as  ap- 
plicable to  the  subject;  which  two  of  us  applauded,  though 
full  of  double  entendre.  Thou,  seeing  the  lady's  serious  air 
on  one  of  those  repetitions,  appliedst  thyself  to  her,  desiring 
her  notions  of  wit:  a  quality,  thou  saidst,  which  every  one 
prized,  whether  flowing  from  himself,  or  found  in  another. 

Then  it  was  that  she  took  all  our  attention.  It  was  a 
quality  much  talked  of,  she  said,  but,  she  believed,  very  little 
understood.  At  least,  if  she  might  be  so  free  as  to  give  her 
judgment  of  it  from  what  had  passed  in  the  present  conver- 
sation, she  must  say  that  wit  with  men  was  one  thing;  with 
women  another. 

This  startled  us  all : — How  the  women  looked ! — How  they 
pursed  in  their  mouths;  a  broad  smile  the  moment  before 
upon  each,  from  the  verses  they  had  heard  repeated,  so  well 
understood,  as  we  saw,  by  their  looks !  Wliile  I  besought  her 
to  let  us  know,  for  our  instruction,  what  wit  was  with  women: 
for  such,  I  was  sure,  it  ought  to  be  with  men. 

Cowley,  she  said,  had  defined  it  prettily  by  negatives. 
Thou  desiredst  her  to  repeat  his  definition. 


318  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

She  did;  and  with  so  much  graceful  ease,  and  beauty,  and 
propriet}^  of  accent,  as  would  have  made  bad  poetry  delightful. 

A  thousand  different  shapes  it  bears; 

Comely  in  thousand  shapes  appears. 

'Tis  not  a  tale,  'tis  not  a  jest, 

Admired  with  laughter  at  a  feast, 
Nor  florid  talk,  which  must  this  title  gain: 
The  proofs  of  wit  for  ever  must  remain. 

Much  less  can  that  have  any  place 

At  which  a  virgin  hides  her  face. 
Such  dross  the  fire  must  purge  away: — 'Tis  just 
The  author  blush  there,   where  the  reader  must. 

Here  she  stopped,  looking  round  her  upon  us  all  with  con- 
scious superiority,  as  1  thought.  Lord,  how  we  stared !  Thou 
attemptedst  to  give  us  thy  definition  of  wit,  that  thou  might- 
est  have  something  to  say,  and  not  seem  to  be  surprised  into 
silent  modesty. 

But  as  if  she  cared  not  to  trust  thee  with  the  subject, 
referring  to  the  same  author  as  for  his  more  positive  decision, 
she  thus,  with  the  same  harmony  of  voice  and  accent,  em- 
phatically decided  upon  it. 

Wit,  like  a  luxuriant  vine, 

Unless  to  virtue's  prop  it  join, 
Firm  and  erect,  tow'rd  heaven  bound,  \ 

Tho'  it  with  beauteous  leaves  and  pleasant  fruit  be  crowned,    v 
It  lies  deformed,  and  rotting  on  the  ground.  ) 

If  thou  recollectest  this  part  of  the  conversation,  and  how 
like  fools  we  looked  at  one  another;  how  much  it  put  us 
out  of  conceit  with  ourselves,  and  made  us  fear  her,  when 
we  found  our  conversation  thus  excluded  from  the  very  char- 
acter which  our  vanity  had  made  us  think  unquestionably 
ours;  and  if  thou  profitest  properly  by  the  recollection,  thou 
/  wilt  be  of  my  mind,  that  there  is  not  so  much  wit  in  wicked- 
ness as  we  had  flattered  ourselves  there  was. 

And  after  all,  I  have  been  of  opinion  ever  since  that  con- 
versation, that  the  wit  of  all  the  rakes  and  libertines  I  ever 


CLARISSA    HARLOWE.  319 

conversed  with,  from  the  brilliant  Bob  Lovelace  down  to 
little  Johnny  Hartop  the  punster,  consists  mostly  in  saying 
bold  and  shocking  things,  with  such  courage  as  shall  make 
the  modest  blush,  the  impudent  laugh,  and  the  ignorant 
stare. 

And  why  dost  thou  think  I  mention  these  things,  so 
mal-a-propos,  as  it  may  seem ! — Only,  let  me  tell  thee,  as  an 
instance  (among  many  that  might  be  given  from  the  same 
evening's  conversation)  of  this  fine  woman's  superiority  in 
those  talents  which  ennoble  nature,  and  dignify  her  sex — 
evidenced  not  only  to  each  of  us,  as  we  offended,  but  to  the 
flippant  Partington,  and  the  grosser,  but  egregiously  hypo- 
critical Sinclair,  in  the  correcting  eye,  the  discouraging  blush, 
in  which  was  mixed  as  much  displeasure  as  modesty,  and 
sometimes,  as  the  occasion  called  for  it  (for  we  were  some 
of  us  hardened  above  the  sense  of  feeling  delicate  reproof), 
by  the  sovereign  contempt,  mingled  with  a  disdainful  kind 
of  pity,  that  showed  at  once  her  own  conscious  worth,  and 
our  despicable  worthlessness. 

0  Lovelace !  what  then  was  the  triumph,  even  in  my  eye, 
and  what  is  it  still  upon  reflection,  of  true  modesty,  of  true 
wit,  and  true  politeness,  over  frothy  jest,  laughing  imper- 
tinence, and  an  obscenity  so  shameful,  even  to  the  guilty, 
that  they  cannot  hint  at  it  but  under  a  double  meaning ! 

Then,  as  thou  hast  somewhere  observed,*  all  her  cor- 
rectives avoived  by  her  eye.  Not  poorly,  like  the  generality 
of  her  sex,  affecting  ignorance  of  meanings  too  obvious  to 
be  concealed;  but  so  resenting,  as  to  show  each  impudent 
laugher  the  offence  given  to,  and  taken  by  a  purity  that  had 
mistaken  its  way  when  it  fell  into  such  company. 

Such  is  the  woman,  such  is  the  angel,  whom  thou  hast 
betrayed  into  thy  power,  and  wouldst  deceive  and  ruin. — 
Sweet  creature !  did  she  but  know  how  she  is  surrounded 
(as  I  then  thought,  as  well  as  now  think),  and  what  is 
intended,  how  much  sooner  would  death  be  her  choice,  than 
so  dreadful  a  situation ! — '  And  how  effectually  would  her 
*  story,  were  it  generally  known,  warn  all  the  sex  against 
*  See  Letter  XLI.  of  this  volume. 


320  THE   HISTORY    OF 

'  throwing  themselves  into  the  power  of  ours,  let  our  vows, 
'  oaths,  and  protestations,  be  what  they  will ! ' 

But  let  me  beg  of  thee,  once  more,  my  dear  Lovelace, 
if  thou  hast  any  regard  for  thine  own  honour,  for  the 
honour  of  thy  family,  for  thy  future  peace,  or  for  my  opin- 
ion of  thee  (who  yet  pretend  not  to  be  so  much  moved  by 
principle,  as  by  that  dazzling  merit  which  ought  still  more 
to  attract  thee),  to  be  prevailed  upon — to  be — to  be  humane, 
that's  all — only,  that  thou  wouldst  not  disgrace  our  common 
humanity ! 

Hardened  as  thou  art,  I  know  that  they  are  the  abandoned 
people  in  the  house  who  keep  thee  up  to  a  resolution  against 
her.  Oh,  that  the  sagacious  fair  one  (with  so  much  innocent 
charity  in  her  own  heart)  had  not  so  resolutely  held  those 
women  at  distance ! — that  as  she  hoarded  there,  she  had 
oftener  tabled  with  them!  Specious  as  they  are,  in  a  week's 
time,  she  would  have  seen  through  them;  they  could  not 
have  been  always  so  guarded,  as  they  were  when  they  saw 
her  but  seldom,  and  when  they  prepared  themselves  to  see 
her ;  and  she  would  have  fled  their  house  as  a  place  infected. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  with  so  determined  an  enterpriser,  this 
discovery  might  have  accelerated  her  ruin. 

I  know  that  thou  art  nice  in  thy  loves.  But  are  there 
not  hundreds  of  women,  who,  though  not  utterly  abandoned, 
would  be  taken  with  thee  for  mere  personal  regards !  Make 
a  toy,  if  thou  wilt,  of  principle,  with  respect  to  such  of  the 
sex  as  regard  it  as  a  toy;  but  rob  not  an  angel  of  those 
purities,  which,  in  her  own  opinion,  constitute  the  difference 
between  angelic  and  brutal  qualities. 

With  regard  to  the  passion  itself,  the  less  of  soul  in 
either  man  or  woman,  the  more  sensual  are  they.  Thou, 
Lovelace,  hast  a  soul,  though  a  corrupted  one;  and  art  more 
intent  (as  thou  even  gloriest)  upon  the  preparative  strat- 
agem, than  upon  the  end  of  conquering. 

See  we  not  the  natural  bent  of  idiots  and  the  crazed? 
The  very  appetite  is  hodij;  and  when  we  ourselves  are  most 
fools,  and  crazed,  then  are  we  most  eager  in  these  pursuits. 
See  what  fools  this  passion  makes  the  wisest  men!     What 


CLARISSA   HARLOWE.  321 

snivellers,  what  dotards,  when  they  suffer  themselves  to  be 
run  away  with  by  it! — An  unpermanent  passion!  Since,  if 
(ashamed  of  its  7nore  proper  name)  we  must  call  it  love,  love 
gratified  is  love  satisfied — and  love  satisfied  is  indifference 
begun.  And  this  is  the  case  where  consent  on  one  side  adds 
to  the  obligation  on  the  other.  What  then  but  remorse 
can  follow  a  forcible  attempt? 

Do  not  even  chaste  lovers  choose  to  be  alone  in  their 
courtship  preparations,  ashamed  to  have  even  a  child  to 
witness  to  their  foolish  actions,  and  more  foolish  expres- 
sions? Is  this  deified  passion,  in  its  greatest  altitudes, 
fitted  to  stand  the  day?  Do  not  the  lovers,  when  mutual 
consent  awaits  their  wills,  retire  to  coverts,  and  to  dark- 
ness, to  complete  their  wishes?  And  shall  such  a  sneaking 
passion  as  this,  which  can  be  so  easily  gratified  by  viler 
objects,  be  permitted  to  debase  the  noblest? 

Were  not  the  delays  of  thy  vile  purposes  owing  more  to 
the  awe  which  her  majestic  virtue  has  inspired  thee  with, 
than  to  thy  want  of  adroitness  in  villany  [I  must  write 
my  free  sentiments  in  this  case;  for  have  I  not  seen  the 
angel?],  I  should  be  ready  to  censure  some  of  thy  con- 
trivances and  pretences  to  suspend  the  expected  day,  as 
trite,  stale,  and  (to  me,  who  know  thy  intention)  poor;  and 
too  often  resorted  to,  as  nothing  comes  of  them  to  be 
gloried  in;  particularly  that  of  Mennell,  the  vapourish  lady, 
and  the  ready-furnished  house. 

She  must  have  thought  so  too,  at  times,  and  in  her  heart 
despised  thee  for  them,  or  love  thee  (ungrateful  as  thou 
art ! )  to  her  misfortune ;  as  well  as  entertain  hope  against 
probability.  But  this  would  afford  another  warning  to  the 
sex,  were  they  to  know  her  story ;  'as  it  would  show  them 
'  what  poor  pretences  they  must  seem  to  be  satisfied  with, 
-'  *  if  once  they  put  themselves  into  the  power  of  a  designing 
'  man.' 

If  trial  only  was  thy  end,  as  once  was  thy  pretence,* 
enough  surely  hast  thou  tried  this  paragon  of  virtue  and 
vigilance.  But  I  knew  thee  too  well  to  expect,  at  the 
*  See  Vol.  III.,  Letter  XVI. 


322  TEE   HISTORY    OF 

time,  that  thou  wouldest  stop  there.  '  Men  of  our  cast  put 
*  no  other  bound  to  their  views  upon  any  of  the  sex,  than 
'  what  want  of  power  compels  them  to  put.'  I  knew  that 
from  one  advantage  gained,  thou  wouldest  proceed  to  attempt 
another.  Thy  habitual  aversion  to  wedlock  too  well  I  knew ; 
and  indeed  thou  avowest  thy  hope  to  bring  her  to  coJiahi- 
tation,  in  that  very  letter  in  which  thou  pretendest  trial 
to  be  thy  principal  view.* 

But  do  not  even  thy  ovoi  frequent  and  involuntary  re- 
morses, when  thou  hast  time,  place,  company,  and  every 
other  circumstance,  to  favour  thee  in  thy  wicked  design, 
convince  thee  that  there  can  be  no  room  for  a  hope  so 
presumptuous? — Why  then,  since  thou  wouldest  choose  to 
marry  her  rather  than  lose  her,  wilt  thou  make  her  hate 
thee  for  ever. 

But  if  thou  darest  to  meditate  personal  trial,  and  art 
sincere  in  thy  resolution  to  reward  her  as  she  behaves  in  it, 
let  me  beseech  thee  to  remove  her  from  this  vile  house. 
That  will  be  to  give  her  and  thy  conscience  fair  play.  So 
entirely  now  does  the  sweet  deluded  excellence  depend  upon 
her  supposed  happier  prospects,  that  thou  needest  not  to  fear 
that  she  will  fly  from  thee,  or  that  she  will  wish  to  have 
recourse  to  that  scheme  of  Miss  Howe,  which  has  put  thee 
upon  what  thou  callest  thy  masterstrokes. 

But  whatever  be  thy  determination  on  this  head;  and  if 
I  write  not  in  time,  but  that  thou  hast  actually  pulled  off 
the  mask;  let  it  not  be  one  of  thy  devices,  if  thou  wouldst 
avoid  the  curses  of  every  heart,  and  hereafter  of  thy  own, 
to  give  her,  no  not  for  one  hour  (be  her  resentment  ever 
so  great),  into  the  power  of  that  villainous  woman,  who  has, 
if  possible,  less  remorse  than  thyself;  and  whose  trade  it  is 
to  break  the  resisting  spirit,  and  utterly  to  ruin  the  heart 
unpractised  in  evil. — 0  Lovelace,  Lovelace,  how  many  dread- 
ful stories  could  this  horrid  v;oman  tell  the  sex!  And 
shall  that  of  a  Clarissa  swell  the  guilty  list. 

But  this  I  might  have  spared.     Of  this,  devil  as  thou  art, 

*  See  Vol.  III.,  Letter  XVI.  See  also  Letters  XIV.  and  XV.  of 
Vol.  III. 


CLARISSA    HARLOW E.  323 

thou  canst  not  be  capable.    Thou  couldst  not  enjoy  a  triumph 
so  disgraceful  to  thy  wicked  pride,  as  well  as  to  humanity. 

Shouldest  thou  think  that  the  melancholy  spectacle  hourly 
before  me  has  made  me  more  serious  than  usual,  perhaps 
thou  wilt  not  be  mistaken.  But  nothing  more  is  to  be  in- 
ferred from  hence  (were  I  even  to  return  to  my  former 
courses)  but  that  whenever  the  time  of  cool  reflection  comes, 
whether  brought  on  by  our  own  disasters,  or  by  those  of 
others,  we  shall  undoubtedly,  if  capable  of  thought,  and  if 
we  have  time  for  it,  think  in  the  same  manner. 

We  neither  of  us  are  such  fools  as  to  disbelieve  a  futurity, 
or  to  think,  whatever  be  our  practice,  that  we  came  hither 
by  chance,  and  for  no  end  but  to  do  all  the  mischief  we  have 
it  in  our  power  to  do.  Nor  am  I  ashamed  to  own,  that  in 
the  prayers  which  my  poor  uncle  makes  me  read  to  him,  in 
the  absence  of  a  very  good  clergyman  who  regularly  attends 
him,  I  do  not  forget  to  put  in  a  word  or  two  for  myself. 

If,  Lovelace,  thou  laughest  at  me,  thy  ridicule  will  be 
more  conformable  to  thy  actions  than  to  thy  belief. — Devils 
ielieve  and  tremble.  Canst  thou  be  more  abandoned  than 
they? 

And  here  let  me  add,  with  regard  to  my  poor  old  man, 
that  I  often  wish  thee  present  but  for  one  half  hour  in  a 
day,  to  see  the  dregs  of  a  gay  life  running  off  in  the  most 
excruciating  tortures  that  the  cholic,  the  stone,  and  the 
surgeon^s  knife  can  unitedly  inflict,  and  to  hear  him  bewail 
the  dissoluteness  of  his  past  life,  in  the  bitterest  anguish  of 
a  spirit  every  hour  expecting  to  be  called  to  its  last  account. 
— Yet,  by  all  his  confessions,  he  has  not  to  accuse  himself, 
in  sixty-seven  years  of  life,  of  half  the  very  vile  enormities 
which  you  and  I  have  committed  in  the  last  seven  only. 

I  conclude  with  recommending  to  your  serious  considera- 
tion all  I  have  written,  as  proceeding  from  the  heart  and 
soul   of 

Your  assured  friend, 

John  Belford. 
Vol.  IV— 23. 


End  of  Vol.  IV 


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